


The Skin-Changer's Quest

by Castor Gemini (The_Gemini_Twins)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Quest never happens, Ring doesn't appear, Skin-changer Bilbo Baggins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2018-11-04 12:54:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10991355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Gemini_Twins/pseuds/Castor%20Gemini
Summary: Bilbo’s life had been perfectly normal—keeping the Bagginses’ name as clean as possible and spending his summers with his Took relatives. Everything changes when he finds himself caught in accident that forces him to spend more time with dwarves than he’d like, especially when it comes to the Oakenshield character. But what happens when he begins to learn the secrets his mother shared and finds himself caught up in a conspiracy bigger than he could ever imagine?





	1. Bilbo

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who don't know, this is a rewrite of a story I had been writing previously "The Great Unexpected Journey of Bilbo Baggins." I'm hoping to fix some areas that didn't quite work and smooth some things over throughout the piece. In order to do this, I've decided to rewrite the whole story using the same ideas with some minor changes.

Bilbo turned the strawberry this way and that, examining its color. It looked ripe enough. At least, it had more color than the rest of the berries on the plant. He gave the strawberry an experimental tug and it fell off the plant and into his palm without a fight. He turned around, holding out his hand to show the strawberry to his young audience.

“See?” he said. “It fell off, just like I told you.”

Ruby gasped, leaning forward to look more closely at the small fruit. “It’s so pretty!” She looked up at Bilbo with wide eyes. “Are there more?”

“Of course.” Bilbo took her hand and turned it over, placing the small strawberry in the palm of her hand. Ruby stared down at the small berry before carefully depositing it in her basket. “You better hurry now,” Bilbo said, and Ruby looked up at him with a questioning look. “Before the birds get to them.” Bilbo held up his pointer and middle finger and thumb, mimicking a bird opening and closing his beak. “They love strawberries.”

Ruby’s mouth formed a small “o” and she turned around, rushing off to join her cousins and friends. She knelt next to them, pushing the leaves aside to try and find more of the reclusive strawberries.

Bilbo stood up, brushing the dirt from the knees of his britches. All around him, fauntlings and tweens alike sorted through numerous strawberry plants. The plants’ vines crept up the roots and trunks of the towering trees that shaded the small group. He leaned back and breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of strawberries crushed underfoot and rich, unturned soil.

He loved coming to the Woody End every spring. Seeing the looks on his young cousins’ faces when they saw the endless strawberry plants was enough for him. Bilbo could remember when he used to come here with his mother as a fauntling. Granted, he was a bit more out of control and spent more time racing through the underbrush than actually picking strawberries. Still, the adult hobbits had laughed and the other fauntlings had chased him, shrieking with glee.

“Hey, Mr. Bilbo!” Adelard poked his head out from behind a fallen poplar tree. Somehow, the young hobbit had managed to squeeze between its branches to get to the plants beneath it. Bilbo had half a mind to give Adelard an earful and tell him to come out from under the poplar. “I bet this would go a lot faster if you were a bird.”

At the foot of the fallen poplar, Olive froze, her fingers hovering over a strawberry. She looked back at Adelard with wide eyes. Several of the other members of the picking party had also stopped, the tweens standing with their mouths hanging open while the fauntlings had turned to Bilbo, excitement in their eyes.

“Please, Mr. Bilbo?” Ruby asked, clasping her hands in front of her. “I’ve never seen you as a bird before.”

“Yes, well,” Bilbo looked around, suddenly finding himself the center of attention, “I’m not so sure—”

“—that it’s appropriate,” Menegilda cut in from behind Bilbo. Several fauntlings ducked their heads and the tweens turned back to the strawberries quickly. Bilbo glanced over his shoulder at Menegilda, who stood with Saradoc held tightly in one arm and a fist planted on her hip. “Adelard Took,” she said. “What has your father told you?”

Adelard looked down at the ground, kicking the dirt. “That it’s not polite to ask changelings to do something for you just because it seems easier,” he recited. “And that I can learn from my own hard work.”

Menegilda nodded. “And remember that the next time you want to ask a changeling to do something for you. They’re hobbits, just like you, not tools.”

Adelard’s face flushed and he turned around, disappearing under the poplar tree’s branches.

Menegilda’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry about that, Bilbo. It seems like that boy doesn’t listen to a word his father says.”

Bilbo attempted a small smile. One never wanted to try and test Menegilda when she became cross. “It’s quite all right, Minnie. He’s still learning, and he’s right. It would be faster if I was a bird.”

“I know,” Menegilda said. “But—” Saradoc chortled in her arms, reaching to grab a small handful of his mother’s hair and waved his fist around. Menegilda winced and caught Saradoc’s hand, trying to free her hair from his grip.

“Here.” Bilbo stepped forward and took Saradoc’s hand when the infant refused to relinquish his mother’s hair. Reaching forward, Bilbo tickled Saradoc’s stomach and the baby paused for a moment before he began shrieking with laughter. He released his prize and reached out to grasp Bilbo’s thumb in his hand. Bilbo grinned down at Saradoc and tickled him under the chin, earning himself another chortle.

Menegilda breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Bilbo. It seems like he’s always trying to grab my hair or something else he shouldn’t have.”

Bilbo stopped tickling and drew his hand away, standing up properly. “Has he changed at all?” he asked.

Menegilda shook her head. “Not once, thank the Valar.” Her eyes widened and she lifted her free hand to her mouth. “Oh, Bilbo, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Bilbo chuckled. “It’s quite all right, Minnie. I’m sure you didn’t mean anything by it.”

Menegilda drew her hand away. “It’s just that,” her shoulders slumped, “every time I see a mother chasing a puppy or a baby sheep, all I can think is of how thankful I am Saradoc isn’t like his father. Is that cruel of me, Bilbo?” She looked up at Bilbo, desperation in her eyes. “I know how badly Rory wants to teach his little ones how to change and behave properly, but I just can’t help but hope we have fauntlings and not changelings.”

“Minnie.” Bilbo rested his free hand on Menegilda’s shoulder. “I think I can name a few lasses out there who wish they were in your shoes.” He glanced down at both of their bare feet. “So to speak.”

Menegilda gave him a weak smile. “Thank you, Bilbo. And thank you for coming out here. I know you had other things to do.”

“Not at all.” Bilbo waved a hand. “I’m more than happy to come help with strawberry picking. Who knows?” He tugged on his finger. “Maybe the next time we come out here, you’ll bring a puppy with you.”

Menegilda’s eyes widened. “Oh, please, no. I’d never find him again.”

Bilbo laughed, finally working his thumb free of Saradoc’s grip. The infant shrieked and reached out, grabbing with his small hand in demand. Menegilda struggled to keep a grip on her son as Saradoc nearly fell out of her arms.

“It’s not time for you to go yet, is it?” Ruby tugged on Bilbo sleeve, gazing up at him solemnly. The handle of her basket rested in the crook of her arm and she had managed to fill it with a few strawberries. The red juices around her mouth gave tell just exactly what had happened to the rest of the strawberries.

Bilbo crouched down so as to be level with the fauntling. “I’m afraid so.” He tucked a stray curl behind Ruby’s ear. “I have some things to do at my own house today.”

Ruby’s lower lip jutted out and she lowered her head. “But I don’t want you to go.”

“He said he has some things to do,” Menegilda said in a kind tone. “Now, why don’t we find more strawberries to pick?” She took Ruby’s hand and led her away.

Ruby glanced over her shoulder at Bilbo, her eyes filling with tears.

Bilbo stood from his crouch and cupped his hands around his mouth. Taking a deep breath, he gave a long series of whistles that echoed through the forest. All of the strawberry pickers stopped, straightening up to look around themselves. The birds of the forest had fallen silent. A rush of wings filled the air and a thrush landed on a bush next to Menegilda and Ruby, a single strawberry in its beak.

Ruby held out her hand, her mouth splitting into a wide grin when the thrush dropped the berry into her open palm.

Bilbo leaned down to pluck a ripe strawberry from a plant. He turned away, heading for the path a little way away from the group. The thrush followed, flitting in circles over his head until Bilbo threw the strawberry into the air. The bird caught the berry easily and took off, disappearing into the trees.

Beady eyes watched from the trees and bushes.

“Just a little longer,” Bilbo told them. “Then you can have your fill.” The birds ruffled their feathers and a series of cheeps and croaks filled the air. “I promise.” They settled back onto their branches, eyeing Bilbo as he headed out of the Woody End.

 

Bilbo loved the Green Hill Country. He had fond memories of visiting the endless hills as a fauntling. He and his mother—and sometimes Uncle Hildifons—would leave Tuckborough early to get to the Green Hill Country just as sun the rose. Belladonna had a hard time keeping a hold of Bilbo as he tried to wrestle out of his shirt and britches and change at the same time. Most of the time, she lost her grip on him just as he’d finished and he would dash away as fast as he could before poking his head around a hill, waiting for his mother and uncle to join him.

Bilbo stopped and took a deep breath in. He caught the scent of the flowers that were still in bloom, dotting the hillsides all around him. Yes, he loved this area. It was untamed, untouched by hobbits, and left to the devices of curious changelings who wanted nothing more than to play under the watchful eyes of their guardians. Bilbo tilted his head back, watching the clouds that drifted by. He could stand here all day, watching the clouds and smelling the flowers.

Beneath his feet, the ground began to creak. Bilbo looked down. “What on earth?” He stepped back a pace and the creaking increased, the earth sagging beneath Bilbo’s feet. He frowned. That shouldn’t be happening. Never in all his life had he even seen any part of the Shire begin sinking beneath his feet, and he’d visited plenty of areas.

The ground sank a bit more. He should probably get off of it, Bilbo realized, before it sank beneath his feet and he found himself trapped in some underground cavern. He turned on his heel and stepped towards what looked to be the sturdiest piece of ground nearby. The creaking stopped and he breathed a sigh of relief before something snapped beneath him, and he found himself tumbling into darkness.


	2. Bilbo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will probably notice that I use "changeling" and "skin-changer" interchangeably. What is used at the time really depends on whose perspective it is. Hobbits calls them changelings while the rest of the races call them skin-changers.

Bilbo sat up, rubbing the back of his head and groaning. He looked around himself. Dark walls surrounded him on all sides of some kind of a hole. He reached out, placing a palm on the wall. Dirt, he realized. He was surrounded by dirt. He craned his head back to look up. Above him, he could make out a patch of blue sky and clouds as they drifted by.

“Who digs a whole in the middle of hills?” Bilbo said. He shifted in his spot, starting when something cracked beneath him. Pulling back the layers of grass he sat on, Bilbo pulled out a stick from under the grass and held it up, running a hand over the smooth wood. His eyes widened.

“A rod.” He pulled back more grass and found various sized rods, all of them bound together at certain points. Bilbo sat back on his heels, tapping the rod against his chin. Someone had meticulously taken these rods and tied them so that they formed some kind of support system.

“And then they dug a hole and put this and the grass over it,” Bilbo murmured, running a hand over the grass. “But why?”

He looked back up at the sky. He could do it, transform into a bird and fly his way out of the hole, but his mother’s words echoed through his mind. _If you don’t need to change to fix a problem, then don’t. Stay exactly the way you are._

“I’m not so sure this is one of those problems a hobbit can fix,” Bilbo said, as if arguing with his mother. He ran a hand along the wall and followed the length of its height with his eyes. “It’s almost twice as high as me!”

Someone chuckled from above him. “That it is,” a voice said in a cheerful tone. The speaker poked his head over the edge of the hole. “I’d been hoping you didn’t get too hurt when you fell.”

Bilbo squinted at the figure. He couldn’t quite make out what they looked like. The sun had risen high enough that it now sat right behind the speaker’s head, casting a shadow over his face. Despite of that, Bilbo could make out that the speaker wore a strange looking headgear or had put his hair up in a way Bilbo had never seen before. “You saw me?”

“Oh, aye.” The speaker pushed back the lump on his head. A hat, then. “I was just coming around the hill when I saw you go down. Are you all right, down there?”

Bilbo looked around himself at the scattered grass and rods. “I’ve been better,” he said. “But I’m starting to think the dwarves have made it into the Westfarthing.”

The speaker hesitated. “Dwarves, you say?”

Bilbo sighed. “Yes, dwarves. I know it sounds crazy, but they come from the mountains every spring and harass us.”

“It doesn’t sound crazy at all,” the speaker said. “But I didn’t know dwarves to be the nasty kind.”

“Neither did I.”

The speaker took off his hat and scratched his head. “If you be wanting, I can get some rope and help you out.” He sounded remorseful when he spoke. “And we can get you back on your merry way.”

“I would be much obliged,” Bilbo said. “I’m afraid I’m not quite tall enough to climb my way out.”

“That you aren’t,” the speaker said in a soft voice. “Back in a jiffy.”

Bilbo waited as patiently as he could while the speaker disappeared, no doubt digging through a pack for something to toss down. His rescuer had seemed so cheerful when he first arrived. Bilbo frowned. What could have made him become so quiet all of a sudden?

“Here we are.”

Bilbo looked up just in time for a length of rope to land on his face. He sputtered and tugged it off, the coarse material dragging against his skin.

The speaker chuckled, sounding a bit more cheerful when he spoke. “Sorry about that. Didn’t think you’d be standing right there when I tossed it down.”

“Yes, well,” Bilbo held up the rope, “I was.” He looked back up at the speaker. “What do you want me to do with it?”

“I tied a loop on it,” the speaker said. “All you’ve got to do is put it around your waist, and I’ll haul you right up.”

Bilbo held out the rope, dragging it through his hand until he found a slip knot on it. He tugged on the rope until the loop grew almost three times in size. “I feel like a pig in a well,” Bilbo muttered. He brought the loop up and over his head, cinching it as tightly as he dared around his waist. He gave the extra rope a tug. “I’m ready when you are,” he called up.

“Then, let’s get you up.”

The rope tightened around Bilbo’s waist as the speaker pulled on it and began hauling him up. Bilbo’s toes left the ground and he had to put a hand in front of his face to keep from landing face first into the dirt wall of his prison. By the time the speaker had hauled him up to solid ground, Bilbo’s clothes had become filthy and the rope had slid up from his stomach to his chest and dug in. He’d probably have rope or cloth burn on his chest for a week. As soon as Bilbo reached for the grass, the speaker grabbed his hand, pulling him out of the hole entirely.

“Thank you.” Bilbo sat up, tugging on the slip knot to loosen it. The rope fell in a loose coil around him. “I don’t know how else I would . . ..” He trailed off as he looked up at his rescuer.

A dwarf stood before him, holding a rather tattered, fur-lined hat in his hands. His dark hair had been braided and the ends of it turned upwards. Somehow—and Bilbo couldn’t be sure if he meant to or not—the ends of the dwarf’s mustache mimicked his hair, curling up. He had a small patch of beard on his chin, unlike many of the drawings of dwarves Bilbo had seen before. The dwarf’s light brown coat seemed to be in better condition than his hat, and had strange, square-like ruins along the wrists and hem.

“You’re a dwarf,” Bilbo finally said.

“Aye, that I am.” The dwarf fiddled with the hat in his hands. “Bofur, at your service.” He bowed low to Bilbo, peeking up at him.

Bilbo stood quickly. “Please, I should be the one bowing—you saved me—and what I said earlier, about the dwarves.”

Bofur straightened up, clapping his hat back on his head. “No, no. It’s quite all right.” He bent and retrieved the rope, drawing it into his hand in a series of loops until he held a small pile of coils. “I’m sure it’s just a bit of a misunderstanding, that’s all.”

Bilbo shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I wish it was,” he said. “But I’ve seen it before.”

Bofur paused in the act of opening his pack. “You mean—”

Bilbo nodded. “I was there when they raided Holman Cotton’s farm.”

“Well, bless me,” Bofur said, straightening up. “It’s no wonder everyone’s slamming their doors in me face. They think I’ve come to rob them.”

“What _are_ you doing in the Shire?” Bilbo asked. “I don’t mean to be rude, but every other dwarf I’ve seen here has been stealing our grain and harassing travelers.”

“Well, I’m a toymaker.” Bofur dropped the rope on the ground and dug through his pack, eventually producing a small, wooden doll. “See?” He held it out for Bilbo to take.

Bilbo took the doll and turned it over in his hand. “This is beautiful.” Someone had put a lot of time and effort into carving thin, individual curls into the doll’s hair and painted each of them the color of ripe wheat. Her dress looked as though it had been made of a pale pink lace, not wood, and little buttons had been painted on her shoes. “I know a few fauntlings who would give anything to have her.”

“You do?” Bofur brightened and accepted the doll back from Bilbo. “I’ve got a couple more like her. I thought I’d come out and try to sell them, but . . ..” Bofur shrugged. “We both know what’s been going on.”

Bilbo tapped his chin. “I might be able to help,” he said. “I am a Baggins, after all, and my family is respected by almost the whole of the Shire. I’m sure there’s someone who will listen to you if I’m there.”

Bofur shoved the coil into his pack before settling the doll into a small compartment lined with wads of cloth. “I’d be mighty thankful for that, Master Baggins,” he said. “It’s not easy selling toys when there aren’t that many beardlings in the mountain.”

Beardlings. Bilbo frowned, but shrugged it off. Everyone must have a different name for their young ones. Hobbits called them fauntlings and men called them children, so it would make sense that dwarves would also have a name for their younger members of the race.

“You may call me Bilbo, Master Bofur.” Bilbo held his hand out. “I think it’s only right that I help you out, since you helped me.”

Bilbo’s hand disappeared into Bofur’s when the dwarf grasped his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Bilbo Baggins.”

Bilbo smiled. “You as well, Bofur.”

 

Bofur, it turned out, had quite the stories to tell, and Bilbo became so engrossed in them he didn’t notice they had reached the marketplace until silence fell around them. He stopped in his tracks, grasping the back of Bofur’s pack when the dwarf kept moving forward.

“Bofur,” he muttered. “Stop.”

“What?” Bofur stopped and turned around. “Is something wrong?” He looked around himself and finally seemed to notice the sheer number of eyes fixed on him.

The hobbits who had been browsing the wares in various stalls—fish, cloth and cutlery amongst them—had stopped and turned to stare at the dwarf standing in the middle of the marketplace. Cotman Cotton had sat up from eyeing the pieces of his chess game with Rudigar Bolger. Cotman reached up to lift his worn, floppy hat and scratch his head, grumbling something under his breath.

Camellia Baggins stepped forward, dressed in one of her pale pink dresses with garish lace. Bilbo supposed it could have been a lovely dress, if the lace hadn’t looked like it had been crocheted by a fauntling. She looked between Bilbo and Bofur with a sharp eye and her lip curled in distaste.

“Camellia.” Bilbo tried to keep his voice even. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“I’m sure it is, Bilbo _Baggins_ ,” Camellia said. “Or at least it would be, if he weren’t here.” She stabbed a finger at Bofur, who shifted uneasily in his spot. “Tell me, Bilbo, what _were_ you thinking, bringing a _dwarf_ into Hobbiton?”

Bilbo looked around at his audience. Pippa Boffin drew her youngest, Flora, closer to her side. Flora clung to Pippa’s skirts, watching Bofur with wide eyes. “I was thinking he might have something some of you may like.” He turned to Bofur. “Why don’t you take them out now? I think they’d all love a chance to see them.” He motioned to the fauntlings scattered amongst the crowd.

Bofur noticed the now curious eyes fixed on him. “Oh, aye!” He lowered his pack carefully to the ground and opened it, digging through it.

Rosie Maggot pulled away from her father, stepping closer to watch Bofur as he pulled out various odds and ends from his pack. Bilbo smiled at her, holding out his hand. Rosie drew closer to him and took his hand, clinging to his britches with her free hand.

“Just need to wiggle them out,” Bofur muttered. “There we are!” He produced the doll he’d shown to Bilbo and turned to Rosie, holding it out to her. “Would you like to see?”

Rosie looked up at Bilbo and he nodded. “Go on.” He gave her a little nudge forward with his knee. Reluctantly, Rosie relinquished her grip on Bilbo’s britches and stepped forward. She took the doll from Bofur and turned it over, running her hand over the smooth wood.

“Pretty,” she said softly.

Mr. Maggot sucked in a breath and hurried over, hunching down next to his daughter. “What’d you say there, love?” he said.

Rosie turned to her father and held the doll up. “Pretty.” She spoke in a barely audible voice.

Bofur looked up at Bilbo, confused, and Bilbo leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Rosie’s never spoken a word since she was born. Her parents have been trying to get her to talk for years.”

The confusion cleared from Bofur’s face. “I’ve got more where that came from.” He reached back into his pack. This time, the fauntlings rushed forward, eager to see the what came out of his pack next.

Bilbo stepped back to allow the fauntlings an uninterrupted view. Mr. Maggot picked Rosie up, holding her close as she clutched the doll to her chest. Bilbo smiled at the pair of them, earning a nod from Mr. Maggot.

“I know what you’re up to,” Camellia hissed in Bilbo’s ear. Somehow, she’d made her way through the crowd to stand behind Bilbo without anyone—even Bilbo himself—noticing.

Bilbo looked over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “And what’s that?” he asked. “Bringing a toymaker into Hobbiton to sell his wares?”

A red flush crept over Camellia’s face. “Causing trouble,” she said. “When the rest of those pests find out he’s gotten in here, they’ll come next.”

Bilbo clutched his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels. “You’re probably right,” he said. “Who knows? Maybe a decent smithy will come creeping into Hobbiton.”

Camellia stared at him, her flush darkening to an almost purple. “You think you’re so clever,” she said in a bitter voice. “You and your kind, coming here all those years ago. Don’t think we Sackvilles didn’t know you were going to cause trouble.”

“Camellia,” Bilbo said, already weary of the same old argument. He watched Flora pull away from her mother and creep up to the crowd of fauntlings. “We’ve discussed this several times. I’m a hobbit, just as you are, and so are the rest of us. In all the years we’ve lived here, at what point have we ever caused real trouble for anyone?”

“Wolves.” Camellia stabbed him the chest with her pointer finger. “You and your kind brought wolves.”

Bilbo stared at his cousin’s wife. Whatever amusement he might have gained from refusing her bait had fled, leaving what felt like a lump of lead in his stomach. He tucked his hands into his pockets. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he said, and turned, heading to the other side of the marketplace. He felt Camellia’s eyes glaring daggers into his back as he headed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose to use Camellia Baggins (Otho Sackville-Baggins' mother) instead of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins because I'm a stickler for sticking to the dates from the book, which means that Lobelia would just be reaching her tweens in this story. She may still make an appearance at some time along the way, she's just going to end up being a Bracegirdle.


	3. Bilbo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reasons I can't explain, whenever I post a story, I always feel the need to post the first three chapters instead of just one. This chapter took me a while to write, so it was later than I would have liked. But I liked how it turned out in the end.

Wolves. Bilbo stuck his hands in his pockets and scowled, kicking at a clump of grass sticking up in the middle of the worn road. Every single time he ran into Camellia or one of her Sackville relatives they had to bring up the wolves. It wasn’t like the changelings meant to draw the wolves’ attention after coming to the Shire. Besides, his mother, Belladonna, and her brother had played just as large a part of driving the wolves back as the rest of the hobbits in the Shire. Bilbo scowled. They may have even played a larger part in the fight than the hobbits.

The hills began to grow sparse, trees filling the open space between them, and Bilbo slowed his pace. His mother had always told him to have more patience than the one bothering him, but somehow Bilbo found it hard to have patience when speaking with Camellia. He didn’t even know what he had done to earn her or the Sackvilles’ wrath. It might have been because Camellia’s husband, Longo, should have inherited Bag End instead of Bilbo. But Bungo had made it clear in his will who Bag End would go to after his death, and the Baggins had no choice but to abide by it.

Bilbo stopped at a small crossroads, tilting his head back to watch the clouds drifting slowly across the sky. A flock of geese broke through one of the clouds. Their lives seemed so peaceful, Bilbo thought, traveling from one place to the next, never trying to play this game of manners. What would it be like to take on such a simple form and let oneself go?

“Bilbo?” A soft, lilting voice drew Bilbo’s attention away from the geese and he turned to the speaker. June Gamgee stood next to the sign pointing the ways to Hobbiton and Michel Delving.

“Mrs. Gamgee.” Bilbo took his hands out of his pockets and clasped them behind his back. June Gamgee had some of the sharpest eyes in all the Shire and could tell when anything was bothering someone or when a fauntling had happened to have done something they shouldn’t have. She did have four fauntlings of her own, after all. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” June leaned forward, peering down the road in either direction. “You haven’t seen May at all, have you?”

“May?” Bilbo frowned, thinking of the small, curious fauntling with her brown curls that never seemed to say pinned back. “I don’t believe so. Did she run off again?”

June clasped her elbows, tears filling her eyes. “I took my eyes off her for a minute,” she said. “And when next I turned around, she was gone. And with the Water like it is . . ..” She shivered. “You don’t think she’d go there, do you?” She looked at Bilbo with a pleading look.

Bilbo chewed his lower lip, a bad habit his mother had used various tactics to try and break without success. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But I’ll check down there, if you’d like.”

“Oh, thank you.” June’s shoulders sagged. “I’ve looked everywhere for her.”

Bilbo did his best to give her a reassuring smile and turned, setting off down the road for the Water. He shivered. After a long winter full of heavy snowfalls, the Water had managed to grow from a creek to almost an entire river. Even the bridge crossing over it had been submerged under the floodwaters. Mothers and fathers warned their children not to go near it, but a fauntling’s curiosity could only be held at bay for so long.

Bilbo hurried his pace. He needed to get to the Water as soon as he could. Farmer Cotton had already lost one of his sheep to the floodwaters. Bilbo didn’t want to think of how easy it would be for a fauntling to fall in.

“Bilbo!” Heavy footsteps pounded up the road from behind, but Bilbo didn’t slow his pace. Bofur managed to catch up to him, breathing heavily and clutching onto the strap of his pack. “Where are you off to?” Bofur looked cheerful and his pack jingled as he walked, no doubt filled with a new bag of coins.

“May’s gone missing,” Bilbo said. “I’m going to check down by the Water.”

“May.” Bofur scratched under his hat. “What’s the lass look like?”

Bilbo thought hard. What did May look like? He knew so many fauntlings throughout all of the Shire, it was getting a little hard to keep track of them. “Brown-reddish curls. Dirt-stained dress. Likes to pick flowers.” That sounded about right. He almost always saw May Gamgee carrying around a small fist of crushed flowers.

Bofur frowned in thought. “Don’t think I saw one like that anywhere. But I heard some lads talking about water.” He looked to Bilbo and hiked his pack up higher. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“The Water?” Bilbo kept his eyes trained on the road ahead. They had almost reached the edge of Hobbiton. After that they just needed to cross the open field between Hobbiton and the Water. “It’s a creek. But after this last winter, it’s turned into more of a river.”

“Seems awful dangerous for a beardling to play by the river,” Bofur said. “Are you sure she would have gone down there?”

They reached the last hill and the road drifted off to their left, heading towards Michel Delving. Bilbo went right, the grass tickling his feet as he wandered off the road. “They’ve all been going to see it,” Bilbo said. “I’ve caught more than my fair share wandering down to the Water this week alone.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” Bofur muttered. “Beardlings shouldn’t wander so far.”

Bilbo looked at Bofur, confused. “Why shouldn’t they? They’re young and curious.”

“It’s dangerous.”

Bilbo snorted. “How else are they supposed to learn if they don’t get scraped up once in a while? There.” He pointed at a group of small figures in the distance. “That’s probably them.” The figures jostled each other and laughter drifted over the field, followed by shouts as one of them fell over. “Fools,” Bilbo muttered, and hurried his pace. He needed to get there before any of the fauntlings did something reckless.

“Shouldn’t we get their parents?” Bofur asked, looking between Bilbo and the group of fauntlings.

“We don’t have time,” Bilbo said. “We need—”

A scream pierced the air, and Bilbo’s heart nearly stopped. He’d heard plenty of screams during his days fauntling-sitting. He could tell when a fauntling had scraped a knee or was simply having a good time chasing another fauntling. But the scream he’d just heard wasn’t either of those. It was a scream of terror. Shouts echoed across the field from the group. One of the figures noticed Bilbo and Bofur and pointed at them, shouting something Bilbo couldn’t understand.

“Run!” Bilbo took off across the green field, Bofur close behind. They needed to get to the Water as fast as they could. One of the members of the small group looked back at the river, pacing the edge and shouting. Bilbo’s eyes widened. They’d never make it in time. He and Bofur were too far away to reach the Water before something could go wrong.

“Bofur.” Bilbo struggled to speak between panting breaths. “I need you to get them away from the Water as soon as soon as you get there.”

“Aye. But what are you going to do?” Bofur didn’t sound nearly as winded as Bilbo felt. Maybe dwarves had a higher stamina than hobbits?

“Something drastic.” Bilbo shrugged off his coat and let it fall to the ground.

“Bilbo!”

Bilbo ignored Bofur and yanked at his waistcoat. Buttons flew everywhere and he tossed that to the side. Behind him, he heard Bofur shout something in a rough tongue he’d never heard before. Bilbo struggled with the braces, barely getting them over his shoulder before ripping his shirt over his head, bypassing his chance to undo the buttons entirely. The shirt fell to the ground, the collar torn and the top button hanging on by a thread.

 _Change_. Bilbo thought of the only creature he could come up with, bringing the black and white image to mind. _Change_. He gritted his teeth. _Change!_ He fell forward, his hips groaning as they suddenly changed position and his knees turning backwards with a painful jerk. An itch spread over his skin. Before Bilbo’s very eyes, his nose and mouth bulged out to form a snout. He hit the ground on all fours, his fingers shrinking to small digits and his nails darkening. _I said CHANGE!_ The itch became a sunburn all over his body as black and white fur rippled over his skin and his bones snapped into place.

Bilbo shot across the field, a black and white blur, and Bofur shouted from behind him. Whether in surprise or trying to call for him to stop, Bilbo would never now. For now, he focused on his paws beating the ground at a pace unmatched by even the fastest pony in the Shire. He reached the group of fauntlings long before Bofur did, and broke through them amidst various shouts.

“Dog!”

“Mister Bilbo!”

The fauntlings stumbled away in surprise. Bilbo caught sight of Andwise, the eldest of the Gamgee children. He turned to him. _Where?_ He demanded, though he knew Andwise couldn’t hear him.

Andwise pointed at the river, his eyes wide and filled with tears. Bilbo whipped around. May held onto a sapling some ways down the Water, coughing and sobbing. The water tugged at the fabric of her yellow dress before ripping her matching bonnet away.

Bilbo tore down the edge of the Water, tearing up the dirt beneath his paws, and plunged into the chilly floodwaters. Hobbits, for the life of them, could not swim, and very few ever learned how, including Bilbo. But when it came to water, the shepherd Bilbo had used since he was a fauntling was a natural and instinct kicked in. Bilbo made his way across the Water, his head bobbing up and down. _May, hold on!_

May sputtered as a wave struck her. Over the rushing water, Bilbo heard Bofur corralling the fauntlings away from the Water’s edge. He ignored the dwarf and focused on May, paddling as hard as he could. The current tugged at him, calling on him to come and play. Bilbo reached May, nosing at her arm.

 _May_. May sobbed and held tighter to the tree. Bilbo had to kick harder to stay in his position next to the young hobbit. _May!_ He gave her a gentle nip, and May opened her eyes. They widened when she spotted Bilbo.

“Lass!” Bofur’s shout carried over the rushing water. “Grab onto the dog!”

Dog. Bilbo flattened his ears against his head. He wasn’t a dog, but he understood where Bofur was coming from. _Come on, May_. He nosed May’s arm. _You know me_.

May reached out with a trembling hand, weaving her fingers into Bilbo’s soaked fur.

 _There we go_. Bilbo kicked harder to get closer to May. _Now the other arm. Come on._ He gave her another nudge, and May let go of the sapling, wrapping her arms tightly around Bilbo’s neck. _There!_ Bilbo turned, struggling against the current that threatened to drag him downstream. He needed to reach the edge, and fast.

May shrieked, her grip tightening around Bilbo’s neck—nearly cutting off his breathing in the process—and buried her face in Bilbo’s fur. He turned around in time to see a particularly large wave come crashing down on them. The pair of them sank beneath the water before bobbing back up.

 _May!_ She still held on tightly. Bilbo looked around himself, frantic. How had Bofur gotten so far away? He caught sight of the sapling May had been holding onto. And when had they travelled so far from the tree? Had the wave really dragged them that far?

“Bilbo!” Bofur called through cupped hands, and pointed at the opposite bank.

Bilbo followed his gaze to where Bofur pointed, and his eyes widened. Another dwarf—this one bald on the top of his head, his scalp covered in tattoos—stood on the bank of the other side of the Water. The dwarf trotted down the edge of the Water, motioning for Bilbo to come closer.

Bilbo changed directions and kicked as hard as he could. He could make it. As long as he reached the dwarf on the shore closer to them, he and May would be okay. Bilbo fought against the current, his toes brushing against the sandy bottom. The tattooed dwarf clambered onto the roots of an old oak tree, reaching out as far as he could. Bilbo managed to reach him, panting. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. May shrieked when the dwarf snatched her from Bilbo’s back.

Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief. _Thank the Valar_. He scrabbled at the oak roots for purchase, trying to drag himself up as the tattooed dwarf made his way back to solid ground. Bilbo leaned against the root, resting his chin on the rough bark, and panted. He’d never had to swim that hard in all his life.

The tattooed dwarf set May on the ground and turned around, his eyes widening. He pointed up the Water and shouted at the same time Bofur’s voice carried over the rapids.

“Bilbo!”

Something slammed into Bilbo’s side and he gave a strangled yelp. He scrambled for purchase on the root—the tattooed dwarf lunging over the base of the oak tree—but he couldn’t dig his claws in, the wood was too smooth, and he found himself snatched by the currents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope my past readers are enjoying the rewrite and I hope that my new readers are enjoying their first time reading it!


	4. Bilbo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am experimenting with my writing a bit, so the chapters' lengths will be a little varied. And Thorin's point of view should be coming up pretty soon. I'm looking forward to that ;D

The current dragged Bilbo under, knocking him against the sandy bottom of the Water. He writhed, trying to find purchase on the bottom of the flooded creek before the current could snatch him once more. He pushed up, off the bed of the Water, and surged upwards. His head broke through the surface and he sneezed, taking in a wheezing breath of fresh air before a wave crashed on top of him.

Bilbo shook his head to move the soaked fur out of his eyes and looked around. Nothing looked familiar. He’d grown up playing along the edge of the Water, but he’d never seen it this flooded before.

 _Where am I?_ He looked over his shoulder. He didn’t see any sign of Bofur, the tattooed dwarf, or the fauntlings anywhere. Maybe Bofur chose to focus on getting the fauntlings somewhere safe before searching for Bilbo? That sounded like the right thing to do. At least, in Bilbo’s book it did.

 _I need to get out of here._ Bilbo kicked towards the shore and yelped when a current snatched him, tossing him back into the middle of the Water. He gritted his teeth and tried again but the currents dragged him back. He floated, his head rest just above the surface of the Water. _How do I get out of here?_

Bilbo struggled to spin around slowly, taking in his surroundings. He saw steep banks from where the floodwaters had reached a section of hills on the right and the tops of a grove of trees on the left.

 _Trees,_ Bilbo said. _Definitely trees._ He moved in that direction, his sides heaving with each breath and kicking his legs as hard as he could. His muscles screamed in protest, but he managed to make it to the underwater grove. He placed his paws on a particularly thick branch of a young tree and rested his chin on it, taking a minute to catch his breath.

 _This is ridiculous,_ Bilbo grumbled. _It’s never been this bad_. He sighed and heaved, trying to drag his entire body out of the water in one go. He felt like he’d gained ten pounds just from his soaked fur alone. He clambered onto the branch and stood there, stiff-legged, for a moment. He watched the water rush by, the waves leaping up and crashing against rocks and trees that normally towered, providing shade for the hobbits who chose to fish on the banks of the Water.

Bilbo settled back on his haunches and shook his head. Water sprayed everywhere and the fur on his head stood up when he stopped. He sneezed again, his lungs attempting to clear out any water he might have accidently inhaled.

 _This is ridiculous,_ Bilbo repeated, hunching over and shivering. _What else is going to happen?_

Later, Bilbo would think that he probably shouldn’t have tempted fate as much as he did with that single question. A wave crashed down on him from behind, tearing Bilbo from his perch on the branch. He slammed into the branches of the other trees in the grove, knocking his head into one as he tried to resurface. Something jerked him back down by his leg.

Bilbo tilted his head and looked down as best he could. The shepherd was an agile creature, he could admit that, but even it couldn’t always get the best view when looking straight down. From what Bilbo could tell, his right back ankle had become caught in the V of a tree’s branches.

He flattened his ears against his head and snarled. _Perfect._ He tilted his head this and way and that, eyeing the branch and trying to find a way to get himself loose. _Now what do I do?_

A rushing sound reached his ears and Bilbo turned his head, spotting a large wave heading towards him. His eyes widened and he jerked at his trapped ankle. _No._ He scrabbled at the branch. _No!_ The wave slammed into him, jerking him forward and under, and a sound like a twig snapping echoed through the water.

Pain shot through Bilbo’s leg and, when he resurfaced, he let out a series of high-pitched yelps, scrabbling at the bark of the branch in front of him. He writhed, struggling to free himself from the branch. Every movement brought on more pain.

“Bilbo!”

Bilbo paused in his crying for a moment and perked his ears, catching the sound of heavy boots pounding on the ground and a soft jingling. It sounded like there were two of them coming. Sure enough, Bilbo spotted Bofur and the tattooed dwarf through the branches of the sunken grove.

The dwarves slowed to a halt at the edge of the Water. Bilbo must have looked like a wreck to them. Bofur’s mouth fell open slightly and the tattooed dwarf looked around them, reaching out to yank at a branch.

“Bofur.” The tattooed dwarf slapped Bofur’s shoulder, calling back his attention. “Grab onto these and climb.” The dwarf jerked on the branch for emphasis.

“Aye.” Bofur nodded. He lowered his pack to the ground carefully.

The tattooed dwarf heaved himself up onto the branch and swung, grabbing onto another. He rested his booted feet on a lower branch. “And bring your rope,” he called over his shoulder.

“Aye.”

Bilbo turned his attention away from the dwarves, choosing instead to rest his chin on the branch. He didn’t bother trying to kick with his back legs anymore. He was well and truly stuck and every movement hurt his injured leg. His eyes drifted closed and Bilbo’s breaths came in sharp pants.

Fur-lined boots landed on the branch a mere inch from Bilbo’s nose and he yelped, pushing off. The tattooed dwarf grabbed Bilbo by the scruff before he could sink under the water. The movement jostled his leg and Bilbo cried out.

The tattooed dwarf leaned forward, examining the water and its underwater contents. “I think he’s stuck.”

Bofur clambered over a branch, drawing closer to the pair of them and looking into the water for himself. “What do we do?” he asked.

“Hold onto him.” The tattooed dwarf shifted his grip, allowing Bofur to clamber on the branch—it groaned under their combined weight—and wrap his arms around Bilbo’s upper body. When Bofur had gotten a decent grip on Bilbo, the tattooed dwarf lowered himself into the water, using the branches to drag himself until he floated directly behind Bilbo.

Bilbo turned his head and looked at the tattooed dwarf from over his shoulder. He didn’t like this. Every part of him screamed something was wrong. There shouldn’t be anyone behind him when he was this badly trapped and injured. He drew his lips back, baring his teeth and let out a soft snarl.

“Easy,” Bofur murmured, rubbing a soft circle in Bilbo’s fur. Despite his words, Bofur leaned back, putting as much distance as he could between himself and Bilbo’s rather sharp teeth.

The tattooed dwarf reached behind himself, searching blindly for something before pulling out a knife.

Bilbo’s eyes widened and he surged upwards, crying out at the pain that shot through his leg. _No. No. No. No. No!_

“Easy.” The tattooed dwarf ran a hand over Bilbo’s head. Water ran down Bilbo’s back. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He turned the knife around, revealing a serrated edge, and ducked under the water.

The branch trapping Bilbo’s ankle shivered with the dwarf’s movements as he sawed. Bilbo lunged forward, sinking his teeth into Bofur’s arm and giving a strangled yelp. Bofur shouted and jerked back, but he wore so many layers under his coat that Bilbo’s teeth couldn’t even reach his skin.

“Come on,” Bofur muttered. He leaned to the side to watch the tattooed dwarf work.

Bilbo whimpered, flattening his ears against his head. It hurt. He knew the tattooed dwarf was only trying to help, but Valar, it _hurt_. The dwarf came up for air, sputtering and gasping before he went back under and resumed sawing at the branch. He did this a few more times before he stopped sawing.

The tattooed dwarf grabbed Bilbo’s ankle in an iron grip, startling Bilbo and setting off a fresh round of pained cries.

“It’s okay.” Bofur held Bilbo closer, crouching as close as he dared. “He’s almost there.”

A snap echoed through the water and the pressure lifted from around Bilbo’s ankle. He gave it a tug, but the tattooed dwarf held on. Bilbo snarled and snapped at the water, and Bofur leaned away from him again, looking a little uneasy. Bilbo finally stilled and the tattooed dwarf released his ankle.

Bilbo shifted in the water, scrabbling at the branch. _Let me up._ He wanted out of the water. He wanted to go home. He wanted the pain to disappear.

Hands settled on his sides. “Easy,” the tattooed dwarf murmured. Bilbo settled his chin on the branch and gave a low whine. He wanted all of this to end. The tattooed dwarf held out a hand to Bofur. “Give me the rope.”

“What for?” Bofur shifted his grip to hold Bilbo with one arm and drag the rope over his shoulder and hand it to the tattooed dwarf.

“We’re not getting him out of the water.” The tattooed dwarf unraveled the rope and began wrapping it in a series of complicated formations around Bilbo’s body.

Bilbo lifted his head from the branch and glared over his shoulder at the tattooed dwarf. _I want out,_ he said. _Now._ He emphasized the last part by baring his teeth.

The tattooed dwarf paused in his actions, his eyes flicking up to meet Bilbo’s, before he resumed and began tying knots into the rope.

“Dwalin?” Bofur said. He wrapped both arms around Bilbo again. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” the tattooed dwarf—Dwalin, muttered. He finished tying the knots and gave the rope a gentle tug. A harness, Bilbo realized. Dwalin had fashioned a homemade harness out of the rope.

 _You heard me_. Bilbo twisted to watch Dwalin as he moved around the water and deeper into the grove. _You—_ He fell silent with a whimper when a passing branch brushed against his leg.

“Bilbo?” Bofur looked down at him, the concern on his face growing.

“Come on.” Dwalin tossed the rope to Bofur. “Let him go.”

Reluctantly, Bofur lowered Bilbo back into the water and caught the rope. Bilbo bobbed under before coming back up. He shook his head and snorted, water spraying everywhere.

“You.” Dwalin pointed at Bofur. “Keep close and don’t let go of the rope. You.” He reached forward and grabbed a part of the rope harness. “No biting.” He punctuated his statement with a glare. “Clear?”

 _Clear._ Bilbo laid his ears against his head. When Dwalin only continued to glare at him, he nodded once. He knew Dwalin could hear him, so why did the dwarf insist on pretending he couldn’t?

“Right. Let’s move.” Dwalin hauled himself backwards, using the branches as anchors and dragging Bilbo behind him. Bofur trailed behind, clambering over and under branches and doing his best to maintain his balance and hold onto the rope at the same time.

The journey to solid ground seemed to take forever. Dwalin had to keep untangling the rope and they stopped several times to let Bofur find a way through tangled knots of branches. The few times Bilbo attempted kicking to help speed things along, he got a sharp “Knock it off” from Dwalin and had to settle for floating in the water.

They reached the shore and Dwalin dragged himself out of the Water. Bofur leapt nimbly from a branch, landing with a sickening _squish_ on the muddy banks. Bilbo hauled himself out, yelping when Bofur and Dwalin grabbed him and helped pull him up onto solid ground. He laid there, shivering as the two dwarves looked down at him.

“Bilbo?” Bofur knelt next to Bilbo, running a hand down Bilbo’s side. “You okay?” His eyes flitted to Bilbo’s leg and he cringed.

Dwalin joined them, skimming his hand over Bilbo’s leg. Bilbo nearly shrieked and he lunged for Dwalin. Bofur grabbed Bilbo, easing him back down to the ground and holding him there with a single hand.

“Easy.” He rubbed his thumb behind Bilbo’s ear. “He’s just trying to see the damage.”

 _It hurts._ Bilbo’s sides heaved with every breath. His eyes burned and he blinked, the tears leaking down his fur. Bofur hushed him, stroking the fur on Bilbo’s head and murmuring soft nothings to him.

“Aye.” Dwalin stood. “It’s good and broken.”

Bilbo closed his eyes and let himself sink into the ground. Broken. He knew what happened to dogs with broken legs. They could hardly ever walk and were retired to someone’s peaceful home or—if the break was really bad—they were put out of their misery.

“Mr. Bilbo!” A voice drifted over to the trio. Bilbo opened his eyes and sat up. Hobson Gamgee, Andwise and May’s father, hurried over the muddy banks of the Water, slipping every once in a while.

 _Hobson._ Bilbo struggled to rise, but Bofur nudged him back to the ground with a hand. _Where’s May?_ Dwalin glanced down at Bilbo, then folded his arms over his chest.

Hobson reached them. When he caught sight of Bilbo, horror filled his face. “Mr. Bilbo!” He looked between Bofur and Dwalin. “What happened?”

“Got his leg stuck.” Bofur jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the grove of underwater trees. “We don’t really know the rest,” he admitted.

Hobson nodded slowly. “I really am sorry, Mr. Bilbo,” he said. “I kept telling Andwise not to go near the Water, but he’s young, see, and—”

“You’ve got a healer?” Dwalin cut Hobson off, glowering down at the hobbit.

Hobson paused. “I’m sorry?”

“A healer.” Dwalin nodded down at Bilbo. “He’ll be needing one.”

Bilbo glared up at him. _I’m right here, thank you very much_. Dwalin ignored him. It seemed to be becoming a habit of his.

“Well.” Hobson wrung his hands. “We don’t really have a proper healer for his kind, you see. Not since Mabel Brandybuck . . . passed on. She was the one to care for them, see. Wrapped up every injury their fauntlings got and—”

“That’s enough.” Dwalin held up a hand, silencing Hobson’s ramblings. Hobson looked down at Bilbo with an apologetic look. “You don’t have a healer.”

“No, sir.” Hobson shook his head. “But Farmer Cotton would be more than happy to care for him. Belladonna helped him that one year, see—”

“I’m not handing him over to some farmer.”

Hobson’s mouth fell open. “But—”

“He’s not a dog,” Dwalin snarled. “We’ve got our own healers to care for him.”

 _And if I don’t want to go?_ Bilbo asked. He didn’t really expect an answer and wasn’t disappointed when Dwalin ignored him. Again.

“What if he doesn’t want to go?” Bofur asked. Hobson nodded quickly in agreement. “This is his home.”

Dwalin grunted and crouched down, placing a hand on the back of Bilbo’s head. Bilbo licked his lips and bared a fang slightly. “Listen up,” Dwalin said. “We’ve got a healer back at our mountain. Come with us, and we’ll see you hale and healthy. Aye?”

Bofur opened his mouth then closed it. “Could’ve said that a lot nicer,” he mumbled.

Bilbo looked between the two dwarves and the hobbit looming over him. A healer. If he ever wanted to walk again, he knew he’d need to find someone to care for him. _Very well,_ he said. Dwalin raised an eyebrow and Bilbo nodded his head once in assent.

“Bofur.” Dwalin turned his attention to Bofur. “Go and get the cart. I left it by a sign, up the road a way.”

“Aye.” Bofur left, heading towards the road that led out of Hobbiton and towards Little Delving.

“And you.” Dwalin turned to Hobson. “Let someone know we’re taking him, aye?”

“Of course.” Hobson nodded quickly and left, following the prints Bofur had left behind in the mud.

Dwalin turned and began coiling up the rope and cleaning his knife. Bilbo laid his head on the ground, ignoring the mud that would get into his fur and dry in clumps. It seemed like he was about to go on a bit of an unexpected journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will say that I have never broken any bones that I remember (I did break my collarbone, but I was a baby at the time and have no memory of it) so I'd love any tips if you have any! And my dogs have never broken their legs (thank God) so my knowledge of a dog's broken limb is entirely research based.


	5. Thorin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this chapter took three months to come out. Something happened back in May and it got in the way of things and distracted me for a while. I can certainly share the story with you, if you'd like it. You know what? I'll tell you instead of feeling like I'm making up an excuse.
> 
> Back in May, I got a new coworker at the service desk (I'm going to call him Lopez for privacy sake). Well, both of my friends currently live in different cities at the moment and my twin sister worked so much that I hard ever saw her. I was left with no friends to do anything with, so I started trying to befriend Lopez. He was sweet, around my age and had an okay sense of humor. It went great, we hung out outside of work a couple times and I had a great time and someone to hang out with. And then Lopez was offered a junior supervisory position and after work one day told me (in his stupid, I'm trying to be serious but telling this in fifty words instead of ten way) that we could no longer be friends or hang out because supervisors weren't allowed to be friends with other associates. It left me devastated for a few weeks and by the time I had gotten back on my feet, work had gotten so busy that I didn't have the energy to do anything and then we went on vacation and, when we got back, work stayed busy. The store's just now started to quiet down and Pollux helped me get back into writing. I've finally found some time to write and I'm certainly hoping to get another chapter written tonight.
> 
> And after that very long explanation, happy reading!

Thorin brushed the jagged, green leaves of the plant aside, revealing a single red strawberry. He cupped it in his hand and studied the small fruit. It looked like something had been chewing on it. Scanning the rest of the plant, he saw only stems where the birds had already feasted on the rest of the strawberries. Several of the plants had been eaten down to their very roots.

Thorin sighed and tipped his hand, allowing the strawberry to fall back to the black dirt beneath it. He stood up, brushing his hands to clear off any dirt he might have gathered from the plant. Even the strawberry plants surrounding his feet looked sad, their leaves chewed on by a far smaller creature than the one that had eaten some of the plants whole.

“How bad is it?” Thorin asked, turning to Nali.

The older dwarf grunted and scratched his dark auburn beard with the three remaining fingers on his right hand. “Well, this entire patch’s been eaten. The west patch—” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the nearest strawberry patch “—they’ve just started on it.”

Thorin groaned and scrubbed at his face, feeling some unseen dirt particles on his hand scratch at the skin on his forehead. Perfect. The one plant the dwarves had that the men didn’t—and desired most in the warmer seasons—and the creatures of the forest had gotten to them first.

“What else is there?” Thorin planted his hands on his hips and looked out at the trees surrounding them. There seemed to be something missing, but he couldn’t quite place it. The strawberry patches grew in their usual places, their vines creeping up the trunks and branches of saplings and shrubs. The trees stood like pale ghosts, casting the entirety of the forest in shadow.

Nali’s expression grew even more grim and Thorin’s heart sank. There couldn’t be anything else that could be worse than losing an entire strawberry crop, and yet, somehow, something always found a way to make things worse.

“There’s almost no undergrowth and most of the trees are stripped.” Nali shook his head. “I told Loni we needed to seek hay from farmers for the deer.”

“Deer?” Thorin remembered the argument between the two older dwarves clearly. It had gone on in circles for hours. Nali insisting that they needed to trade for enough hay and wheat to last for twice as much livestock as they had, and Loni arguing that they could already barely afford the amount of feed they were buying already.

“Aye.” Nali sighed and tugged on a nearby sapling, bending it backwards to reveal the bark stripped from the small tree. “The deer came down from the mountain and stripped half the trees, not to mention they ate everything on the ground.” Nali nodded at an empty spot between a pair of trees.

Thorin’s eyes widened. Of course. It was still early enough in the spring that he hadn’t thought to look and yet the answer had been right in front of him. Whatever small plants that grew beneath the trees were gone, much like the strawberry plants.

“Is there anything we can do?” Thorin asked. “Something to keep them from doing it again?”

Nali scratched the back of his head and released the sapling, letting it spring back into its original position, albeit looking a little worse for wear. “If we’d fed them over the winter, we wouldn’t have had this problem. Now,” he eyed the sapling with a critical eye, “half of these trees won’t make it through another winter.”

Thorin closed his eyes, took a deep breath in, and opened them again. “And the strawberries?” he asked. “Is there anything we can do for them? Something to keep the animals off?”

Nali chewed on his lip as he thought for a few minutes. “We’ve let the dogs loose in them and left a few dwarves to keep an eye on them. Dogs are keeping the birds and beasts away, but I don’t think we can leave them out there for long.”

Thorin sank down on a nearby fallen log. After a successful winter with ample food and no other troubles, he’d been hoping they wouldn’t be forced to endure another struggle and yet, here they were, the first few months of spring and they’d already met their match.

“What is it the men do to their chickens?” Nali said suddenly, breaking Thorin out of his thoughts.

Thorin gave Nali a worried look, wondering if the dwarf might have spent too much time worrying over the state of the forest. Maybe he shouldn’t have given Nali the mastership of the forest. After all, being Keeper of the Woods meant a dwarf had to spend more time trekking through the forest than at home, working on a simpler job like smithing or woodworking.

“Aye. Their chickens. They keep them in some kind of cage.” Nali drew a square in the air as an example. “Place some kind of rope netting over it in the summer, keep the hens in and weasels out.”

Thorin frowned. Nali had definitely spent a bit too much time outside this month alone. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said. “Do you want us to do the same with our chickens?”

“No.” Nali shook his head. “Not our chickens. The strawberries. We put netting over the berries and keep the beasts off them.”

Thorin straightened up. Netting. He could see them now, the hen coops Nali mentioned. Simple structures built of post with rope netting wrapped around and over the coop. He’d seen plenty of hens try escaping the coops to no avail.

“Do you think that would work?” Thorin asked, almost too hesitant to hope.

“Aye.” Nali rubbed his chin beneath his beard. Unlike many other dwarves, Nali chose to weave his hair into braids that crisscrossed each other until they formed a simple diamond pattern. “If we use wire instead of rope, it might be stronger.”

Thorin stood up from the log. “We’ll speak with Onar, see what he has to say. I’m sure he’ll be willing to help.”

Nali grunted in affirmation. “While we’re at it, we can see what the men think of it.” At Thorin’s—yet again—confused look, he added, “The weasels are always chewing through the nets and getting the chickens anyway. I’d like to see them chew through metal.”

Thorin clapped Nali on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you to speak with him, then, tell him your plan.”

“Me?” Red began to creep up Nali’s face. “It’s hardly my plan. Just some random thoughts I’ve been listing off. Must have thought I was talking to the trees again.”

Thorin grinned. Nali could swing a sword or an axe as well as the next dwarf, but when it came to speaking with someone or owning up to what he was rightfully owed, the dwarf became a nervous wreck. It was the most likely reason why Nali had turned down the chance to be Master of Trade and allowed Loni to take the position.

“You’ll do fine,” Thorin said, squeezing Nali’s shoulder. “Just raise your voice when you speak to him. He has some trouble hearing.”

“Trouble hearing,” Nali muttered. He turned and crouched down to begin examining the sapling, pushing and pulling the branches this way and that to see just how bad of a state it was actually in.

Thorin shook his head and began heading back towards the road. Last year’s leaves sank into the mud with each step, leaving large boot prints trailing behind Thorin.

Sixty years ago, Thorin would never have imagined he would be talking about strawberries, deer and chicken coops with a dwarf who had once been nothing more than a common guard. But, somehow, here he was, speaking with a dwarf who had put his own life on the line to defend Thorin’s life as Thorin tried desperately to save his younger brother. True, Nali had lost his pinky and ring finger in the battle and left with a long scar running halfway down his face, but those injuries were minimal compared to what others had lost.

A whinny echoed through the trees and Thorin stopped for a moment. Ebony. He’d completely forgotten about the pony he’d left tied to a tree by the road. Thorin sped up, trotting down the worn-down path towards the road. A few moments later he heard a series of fast-paced clip-clops, as if someone were riding someplace in a hurry.

Thorin reached the road just as a pony disappeared around the corner. A shaggy, black pony turned her head to look at him, flicking her tail in what could only be described as a cross manner.

“I left you alone for too long, didn’t I?” Thorin asked. He reached Ebony and the pony snorted, shaking her head. Thorin grinned and rubbed her face with one hand while digging around in a saddle bag with the other. He eventually found what he was looking for and drew out an apple. Ebony lifted her head higher and swished her tail.

“Here.” Thorin held out the apple and Ebony took it, the fruit crunching as the mare chewed it, apple juice falling from her lips. Thorin stroked Ebony’s neck as she ate her well-earned award. “I’m sorry for leaving you for so long.” He didn’t expect any sort of understandable answer from Ebony—she was a pony after all—but she did butt him gently in the chest with her head.

“Now that you’re done, we’ll head home.” Thorin reached over and tugged on the knot. It slipped loose easily and he threw the rope up onto the saddle before placing a foot in the stirrup. As he prepared to swing himself up onto the saddle, something caught Thorin’s eye. He paused for a moment, then slipped his foot out of the stirrup and strode over to what had caught his attention.

A few feet away from where he’d just been standing was a large imprint in the earth. Thorin knelt down, brushing dead leaves and branches aside. His breath caught in his throat. There, imprinted deep into the earth, was a very large animal track.

With a shaking hand, Thorin placed his own hand over the imprint. By the size of it, he’d say it was left by a bear—which wasn’t all that uncommon in the mountains—but the shape was different. The print had four rounded toes instead of five and—when Thorin brushed more leaves aside—there were more of the same size and form.

Seeing an animal print of that size left a single word in Thorin’s mind that he uttered aloud, “Warg.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are four things I detest at the moment. Shower doors, glass doors, windows, and strawberries.
> 
> Why shower doors, glass doors and windows? Because they're all made of glass and I regularly have to handle those three items specially ordered for customers, like one-of-a-kind-won't-get-another-in-several-weeks kind.
> 
> Why strawberries. Because I did enough research on strawberries to last a lifetime. I may grow them in my mom's garden, but good grief. I did not need to learn that much about that many different kinds of strawberries just because I was trying to figure out the names of the parts of strawberries. Turns out, I should have just asked Pollux. She told me the name I needed right away -.- That's what I get for not asking her first.
> 
> I am sorry that there's not a lot to this chapter, I'm sure you weren't expecting one about deer, strawberries and chicken coops, but there's more on the way! And the next one continues on with Thorin, so hopefully he'll prove his side of the story can be just as interesting as Bilbo's.


	6. Thorin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so cold, here in Minnesota, that I lost all feelings in my fingers and it's only the first of September. It shouldn't be this cold!
> 
> So, I do have some important news. First off, I work from today until next Friday. I won't have any more days off. After that, I'll be gone from the 8th to the 15th, visiting Yellowstone National Park! Unfortunately, there's next to no internet access in the park (Pollux lived there for three months last year, she knows all about it) so that will mean I won't be able to update in those days. Until then, I'll have to see how well I can coordinate chapters with my work schedule.
> 
> This chapter took a few days to write just because I'm so bad at time skips. They're one of my pet peeves. I don't like not knowing what's happened in the span of a few days, let alone an hour, but I'm working on it. One day they won't bother me anymore!
> 
> So, until my next chapter, happy reading!

Ebony’s hooves drummed against the earth, muffled by a thick layer of leaves. Thorin leaned close to the pony’s neck, wincing when they raced under a low-lying branch. The twigs caught in his hair, tugging at the strands until the twigs either snapped off the branch or ripped the strands out. Thorin shook his head, trying to ignore the itching pain that now filled it.

The pair reached the small clearing and Thorin drew Ebony to a halt. The pony snorted and pawed at the earth, her sides heaving after their short dash. Thorin patted her neck and murmured soft words of praise. Ebony flicked her ears back at the sound of his voice and lowered her head to begin foraging through what little undergrowth remained. Thorin ignored her and sat up in the saddle.

“Nali,” Thorin called to the dwarf, who still knelt in front of the sapling, fiddling with the young tree’s branches as he examined it.

Nali remained kneeling on the ground, but turned around. “Aye?” He cupped his three-fingered hand around his ear. “What are you needing now?”

“Pack up and get back to the mountain,” Thorin said.

“What’s happening?” Nali tilted his head back to look at the sky. “Storm brewing?” He frowned when he spotted nothing but blue sky above the treetops.

Thorin flicked his gaze up at the blue sky then back to Nali. “Not a storm,” he said. “Warg tracks.”

Nali’s head whipped back from staring up at the sky, fear in his eyes. “Wargs?”

“Aye.” Thorin gave Ebony’s reins a gentle tug and the pony lifted her head with a snort. “Head back to the mountain. Tell anyone you see to get back.”

“Aye, Thorin.” Nali stood quickly, reaching for the pack he’d left sitting next to the fallen log. He snatched up small instruments and began stuffing them into the rucksack as quick as he could.

Thorin turned Ebony around and tapped his heels against her sides, clicking his tongue at the same time. “Come on.” Ebony lunged forward, tearing up the path at the same pace she had come down it. This time, Thorin leaned his face against her neck as they passed under the branch and avoided losing any more hair to the tree. He swore the branch hadn’t been that low hanging when he’d left Nali the first time not half an hour ago.

They reached the road in no time and Ebony’s hoofbeats switched from a muffled beat to a heavy thud. After so many years of continuous travel, the dirt road had become packed down and lined with various ruts from the carts the dwarves used.

Thorin scanned the road as they continued on, keeping an eye out for any more warg tracks. If something planned to sneak up on him, he wanted to know. He wasn’t about to let any orcish creature catch him from behind and leave him injured or, even worse, dead. Ebony flicked her ears and sped up, possibly sensing her rider’s unease.

Within what seemed like a span of minutes—though it was probably more—the gates to the Blue Mountains loomed before them. Thorin slowed Ebony to a trot as they neared the gates and patted her neck once more. “Good girl.”

At their distance, Thorin could make out movement on the rampart hidden above the gate. It had taken nearly a decade and scores of the finest carvers, but the dwarves of the Blue Mountains had carved the walls of the ramparts in a way that they remained hidden from the untrained eye. Unless someone traveled up to the gate at night and saw the fires’ shadows flickering behind the wall, they would probably never see the guards hidden above the gate.

Ebony slowed to a walk as they reached the gate and entered it with her head lowered and sides heaving. Thorin grimaced. The next time he rode Ebony, he wouldn’t push her so hard. The pony didn’t deserve to suffer for his own worry, but he’d needed to get back to the mountain quickly.

Balin stood at the gate, dressed in his usual dark red robes and a disapproving look on his face. “I’d say you near rode that pony to death, Thorin,” he said, tucking his hands into his sleeves. “If you do that again, Kofri might not allow you near another pony.”

“I didn’t have time to spare.” Thorin swung down from the saddle, dragging the reins over Ebony’s head. He led the pony towards the stables standing near the gate, where a few younger dwarves lounged near the doors.

Balin quickly stepped in line with Thorin, matching his pace. Thorin eyed his old friend—and cousin—carefully. Balin had combed his snow-white beard so that it split down the middle and the ends curved up. His beard never looked this tame unless Fili and Kili had somehow managed to slip out of their lessons.

“Fili and Kili?” Thorin asked. They reached the stables and the younger dwarves leapt to their feet.

“My lord!” The nearest dwarf bowed low. “I can take her.” The young dwarf hurried forward and Thorin handed over Ebony’s reins.

“See to it that she gets plenty of water and feed.” Thorin ran a hand along Ebony’s neck. He could feel the sweat that had gathered on her shaggy coat. “And rub her down well, she’s worked hard today.”

“Aye, my lord.” The young dwarf nodded quickly then turned and led Ebony into the stables. The mare’s hooves clip-clopped against the stone floor, the sound echoing off the walls.

Thorin turned back to Balin. “Well?” he asked, folding his hands in front of him.

Balin glanced at the young dwarves, who had fallen silent—though they muttered amongst themselves—and seemed to be paying close attention to Thorin and Balin. Thorin followed Balin’s gaze, then turned and began walking away from the stables, deeper into the mountain. Balin followed, hurrying to catch up with Thorin.

“I gave them the day off,” Balin said. “They’ve had more energy since Dwalin’s been gone, and I don’t think I’m the one who should be teaching them swordsmanship.” He gave Thorin a pointed look. “I think it might have been better if we’d sent someone other than Dwalin.”

Thorin stopped walking and turned to Balin. “We have sent dwarf after dwarf to the Shire to trade, and they’ve all come back empty-handed with no story to tell.”

Balin gave Thorin a hard look. “That doesn’t mean you send my brother to trade with them,” he said. “He’s more likely to scare the poor things out of their skins.”

“That may be true,” Thorin said. He resumed their walk, passing by one of the towering pillars. A small group of dwarves worked carefully, testing the stone for any cracks that might hinder their work and scratching with soot-covered sticks to mark out a design on it. “But if he fails, he will at least tell me why.”

Balin frowned, but didn’t pursue the topic any further. “What were you doing riding that pony so hard?” If Balin wore glasses, Thorin had the feeling he’d be peering over the ridge of them right now. “She certainly didn’t deserve to work so hard for no reason.”

Thorin stopped and looked around them before leaning forward. “I spotted warg tracks,” he said in a low voice.

Balin sucked in a sharp breath. “Warg tracks?” he said. “Are you sure?” Thorin straightened up and nodded curtly. “Thorin, they could have just as easily been wolf tracks.”

“Since when do wolves venture this far west?” Thorin asked. “We have lived here for nearly five decades, and not once have we seen trace or heard any tale of a wolf in these parts.”

“But you’ve heard rumors,” Balin pointed out. “Have you forgotten the wolves we encountered all those years ago?”

The image of the pale wolves entered Thorin’s mind all too easily. “Those were no wolves,” he said, remembering how the twisted creatures had raced through the snow to get at them. “They were nothing more than a few warg scouts.”

“Warg scouts or no,” Balin said. “A few of them could have survived the battle and hidden in the forest.”

“For this long?” Thorin asked, his words layered with doubt.

Balin tilted his head and shrugged his shoulders. “You never know,” he said.

“No dwarf leaves this mountain unarmed,” Thorin said, and Balin sighed.

“Thorin—”

“I will not have any blood shed because I chose to be careless,” Thorin said. He clutched his hands behind his back. “We’ll send out a party to search the woods. If we find any wargs, we prepare for battle.”

Balin scrubbed at his face with a gloved hand. “Laddie,” he said. “I understand what you’re thinking, but you might be worrying a bit too much.”

Thorin scowled. “Balin, we—”

“My lord.” A voice cut Thorin off, and he and Balin turned around. Sami, a female dwarf—and the only female guard—strode towards them, a raven sitting on her shoulder. Her flaming red hair was braided close to her head and she had tied the mass of braids at the nape of her neck. She wore the simple regalia of a guard—a cloth patch bearing the head of a red dragon sewn into the shoulder—and carried a sword on her hip.

Sami stopped before them and bowed low, clutching a roll of paper in her hand. “My lord,” she said again. “This arrived just now.” She held the parchment up. “And I have news.”

Thorin turned to her. “What news?” he asked. Beside him, Balin tucked his hands back into his sleeves.

“Oin left not but an hour ago,” Sami said, sounding as if she’d recited the words in her head countless times before approaching them. “He took a pony and left in a hurry.”

Thorin and Balin shared a look. “Do you know why?” Balin asked.

Sami shook her head. “Only that he received a raven before he left.”

“And the letter?” Thorin nodded at the parchment.

Sami clutched the letter tightly, glancing at the raven sitting on her shoulder. “It arrived from Dwalin, my lord,” she said. “With an order to limit the guard and ban access to the entry hall.”

“Ban access?” Thorin repeated. “Why?”

“Well, my lord.” Sami shifted her weight and held the letter close to her chest. “He says he brings a skin-changer with him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I have any readers who have had experience with horses, I would love some tips! I've only ever gone on hour long trail rides three times, so I don't have a lot of experience with horses.
> 
> A note I forgot to put in the last chapter: I have heard about instances of people feeding deer over the winter to keep them from destroying forests as they eat anything they can get a hold of when food is scarce. So, I decided to try and use the idea myself. 
> 
> See you next time!


	7. Thorin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter One of what was supposed to be a three-chapter update. My grandmother passed away in about the middle of March, and about a week after we got back from her funeral, one of my coworkers died of a massive heart attack. To top it off, my laptop was randomly restarting and making me lose pieces of my writing. It’s finally stopped after about nine months of that, now it just disconnects from the internet once in a while, but I can work with that.
> 
> Happy reading,
> 
> Castor.

Sami’s words echoed through Thorin’s mind again and again. Could it really be true? Was Dwalin actually bringing a skin-changer back with him? Slowly, Thorin became aware of both Balin and Sami watching him, the latter with bated breath as she waited for a decision or order. Thorin wordlessly held out his hand and Sami handed the parchment to him. He could feel Sami’s trembling as he took the message from her and she stood at attention, arms held close to her sides.

Thorin opened the note and skimmed through his cousin’s words. Balin leaned forward to read over Thorin’s shoulder. _Empty the hall. Minimal guards. Bringing skin-changer back to E.L._ Thorin folded the parchment back up quickly and enclosed it in his hand as he clasped the both of them behind his back.

“Find Hakil and give him Dwalin’s request,” Thorin said. “Tell him I’ve approved it and we are to do as he says.”

“Yes, my lord.” Sami thumped a fist on her chest, and the raven gave an irritable _caw!_ as it was shaken by the movement. The bird rose into the air with a flurry of wings and disappeared over the parapet. Sami turned on her heel and headed to the guardhouse with sure steps. Thorin didn’t miss the slight slump in her shoulders as she left.

Balin shook his head. “The poor lamb,” he said. “I’m sure she hoped to do more than carry letters.”

“She’s new, give her time.” Thorin tilted his head to Balin. “It was your brother who recommended her.”

Balin gave Thorin an incredulous look before holding out his hand. Thorin handed him Dwalin’s message and he read it over, taking time to study the handwriting. “This is my brother’s handwriting.” He handed the parchment back to Thorin. “But why is he bringing a skin-changer back with him?”

Thorin glanced over his shoulder to where a group of carvers had settled at the base of a column and began marking it with the charcoal. They paused every once in a while to glance down at their blueprints and make corrections. Thorin silently headed for the stairwells, Balin hot on his heels.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Balin said. He hurried his pace to keep up with Thorin. “We haven’t seen a skin-changer in nearly fifty years. What is bringing this one back?”

“I need to speak with Hakil and Jonis.” Thorin stepped into the dim light of the stairwell.

Lamps bearing candles hung low over the stairs to provide some light in what appeared to be an endless tunnel leading straight up. Birds flitted through the stairwells and disappeared into the surrounding chambers—some of them the ravens the dwarves used as messengers and the others wild birds that had mistakenly found their way into Ered Luin.

Thorin headed up the stairs at a trot. Soft voices echoed off the walls all around him, carrying the conversations to the different levels of Ered Luin. Balin followed Thorin at a more sedate pace. “I know what you’re thinking, laddie,” he said.

“And what is that?”

“You think you might be able to bond with this skin-changer,” Balin said. He ducked as a thrush shot over his head to land on a step. It held a small nut in its beak and began beating it against the stone, the cracking resounding through the stairwell.

“You speak as if it could never be done.” Thorin stopped halfway up the stairs and turned, one foot braced on the next step. “As if we will never have another skin-changer in our halls.”

Balin slowed to a stop and rested his hands on his hips. “I’m not saying that it can’t be done, Thorin,” he said. “But I do believe it is time for us to let go.” He looked to Thorin with a pleading expression.

Thorin stepped down to stand on fully on his step. Balin couldn’t mean that, he couldn’t. Didn’t he remember the days when the skin-changers had filled the halls of Erebor? When they and the dwarves had lived peaceably? “And what of our birthright?” he asked slowly. “What of Erebor? With the strength of the skin-changers, we might—” He cut off as he stepped aside to let a dwarf-woman pass. She nodded and muttered a soft ‘good day’ to Thorin and Balin, holding her skirts out of the way in one hand and a basket in the other.

“We might what, Thorin?” Balin asked. He shifted on his feet, leaning forward slightly. “Reclaim Erebor? Do you remember why we lost it in the first place? Your grandfather—”

“Was a fool.” Thorin’s face darkened. “And I will not be the same, I am not my grandfather.” Balin opened his mouth then closed, his lips forming a thin frown, and he ran his hand over his thick beard. “I need to speak with Hakil and Jonis,” Thorin repeated.

Balin sighed. “Very well. I’ll find them and send them to you.”

Thorin clapped Balin on the shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. “And I promise you this: we will see Erebor again.” Balin gave Thorin a look that clearly said he thought his younger cousin had gone mad before heading back down the stairs to the first level. Thorin watched him go before continuing up the stairs, his spirits rising with every step. He had always known to never give up hope. They would have the skin-changers filling their halls once more, and Thorin would welcome them home far warmer than his grandfather ever would have.

 

Sunlight filtered into the southern chamber on the third level when Thorin stepped out of the stairwell. Thorin had left the cavernous chamber in the early hours, when the sun had just begun to peek over the horizon. The chamber had been nearly dark as night with a chilly breeze drifting through the shafts cut into the side of the mountain. Now the air had stilled and whatever frost Thorin had seen earlier had dissipated into the cool air of the chamber.

Pebbles and debris from the recent construction crunched under Thorin’s boot as he strode past the houses lined up on either side of him. They stood like short, squat soldiers waiting for a command to be given. Between the houses, Thorin spotted dwarves working to carve stones into a finer block before placing them on the wall of the next house. Markers had been placed in the lots following the house as to where the dwarves would begin work on the next buildings.

Thorin felt the day’s weight lifted off his shoulders. They had come so far. When he’d first come to the Blue Mountains, Ered Luin had been little more than a level, a deep and a few mines. Now it stood strong, chambers hewn from the rocks and sturdy homes built for the inhabitants of the mountains. The dwarves of Erebor no longer needed to wander the wilderness or find work in the villages of men—though a few still set out every spring to earn more coin from their craft—they had finally found a home.

A single house stood at the end of the chamber, a slim road cutting it off from the other houses. The homes on either side of it had been built a short distance away at the end of two more rows of houses. Thorin had argued against allowing these homes to have the extra space the other houses did not, but Loni had brushed him off, insisting that the son of a king was allowed a little extravagance from time to time.

Thorin strode up the path that cut through the sea of pebbles Dis had refused to be denied—even though she new spent every day complaining of the rock she continuously found around the house. He paused, his hand rested on the doorknob, when his nephews’ voices floated around the corner. So that was where they had gone. Dis must have commandeered her sons on their day off from their studies.

Glancing once at the door, Thorin headed around the corner to the enclosed courtyard at the back of the house. The pebbles crunched underfoot, but Fili and Kili didn’t seem to notice their uncle’s approach.

“You’re thinking too hard about this. Just try asking him.”

“You know what he would say. He’d say it was for fools.”

“He would not.”

Thorin stepped around the corner and leaned against the house, folding his arms over his chest. His eldest nephew, Fili, sat on a stool at a table he and Kili must have dragged outside. A cloth was laid out in front of Fili, mirrors littering the soft fabric. He held a mirror in hand and a rag in the other. His younger brother, Kili, stood in front of a wash basin, his sleeves rolled up, pointing something at his brother. Lamps sat like dark skeletons on the table, candles of various set strewn about them. Their coats lay in a heap against the wall of the house. Dis must have tasked her sons with the spring cleaning of the lamps.

“And who’s a fool?” Thorin asked.

Fili whipped around on his stool, his eyes wide, and the mirror flew out of his hand. It landed with the shattering glass, shards flying in every direction. Kili, his eyes as equally wide as his brothers, gave a startled yelp and jerked his hand. Thorin ignored the soft clatter of wood on stone, already kneeling to clean up the shattered mirror.

“Uncle, I’m sorry.” Fili rose up from the stool and fell to his knees next to Thorin. He hurriedly began to scoop up the glass, ignoring the small cuts forming on his hands.

“Fili.” Thorin grasped his nephew’s wrist gently and tipped Fili’s hand, pouring the glass shards into his own. “Go.” He jerked his chin and Fili returned to his stool, his hands hanging between his knees. Kili stood at the washbasin, resuming whatever activity he’d paused to argue with Fili.

Thorin finished cleaning up the rest of the glass. His nephews remained silent, the only sound that filled the courtyard was the soft clinking coming from the washbasin. Thorin stood up and emptied his hand into a nearby bucket. He made a mental note to take it inside before anybody tried to use the bucket for something else. He turned back to his nephews.

Kili’s dark hair hung in front of his face as he lifted a square, glass plate out of the washbasin and placed it carefully onto a cloth laid out at the farther end of the table. Fili remained still, though—unlike Kili—he’d tied his blond hair back to keep it out of the way.

Thorin brushed his hands together to clean off any remaining fragments into the bucket, then squeezed Fili’s shoulder. “Accidents happen,” he told his nephew. “It’s better that we know about them now, rather than later, when they are easier to clean up.” He looked pointedly between his nephews. “And forgive.”

“Yes, Uncle.” Fili kept his head down, but Thorin could see a small smile forming. Even Kili had begun to grin a little, though he kicked at something under the table and same clatter echoed off the walls. Kili winced at the sound.

Thorin clasped his hands behind his back and watched as Fili turned and returned to polishing the mirrors, albeit handling them with a bit more care than he had the last mirror. Kili lifted another plate out of the washbasin and deposited onto the cloth.

“Did your mother ask you to do this?” Thorin pulled an empty lamp to him and picked up a polished mirror, sliding it carefully into its groove. He set two mirrors at angle on either side of it before picking up a glass place and easing it into place. Thorin had forged these lamps himself for Dis’s birthday nearly a decade ago. They were squat and block-like with intricate squarish swirls that followed the edges of the lamp.

“She said that if we had nothing better to do,” Kili said, “then we could finally wash these like we were supposed to last week. Ow!” He jerked to the side when his brother kicked him under the table. “What?” he demanded. “What did I say?”

Fili ignored his brother and picked up another mirror, dipping his rag into a small tin and wiping it over the glass in smooth strokes. Thorin shook his head at his nephews antics and continued placing the plates and mirrors into the lamps. He loved Fili and Kili dearly, but sometimes he could never quite understand them. Perhaps it came from them growing up without any dwarves close to their age. The three of them worked in silence for a little while, Kili shooting sharp glances at Fili whenever he opened his mouth to speak.

“Dwalin will be returning soon,” Thorin broke the silence. He set a finished lamp on the table and rested his hands on either side of it. He looked closely at both of his nephews. “He’s bringing a skin-changer with him and I expect you two to behave,” he stressed his finals words, but Kili’s face had already lit up.

“A skin-changer?” Kili traded a look with Fili. He let his hands sit in the water, his work all but forgotten. “When will he get here? Do we know what it is? Can it fly?”

Thorin folded his arms over his chest, waiting for Kili’s endless questions to end. Kili tried, he really did—and Thorin could see it in him—but sometimes his excitement got the better of him.

“Kili,” Fili hissed, tapping his booted foot against Kili’s own. He jerked his head in Thorin’s direction. Despite his attempt to control his brother, even Fili had forgotten his own work.

Kili’s face when he caught sight of Thorin’s expression. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to ask so many questions.” He swished his hand around in the water.

Thorin sighed and rubbed his temple. “Dwalin didn’t send any specifics,” he told his nephews. “But I don’t believe the skin-changer has any experience with dwarves. We’ve been asked to limit the guard and keep all other dwarves out of the gate hall.” He pinned Fili and Kili to their spots with his stare. “All of them.”

Both of his nephews nodded quickly. “Yes, Uncle,” they said together; though, Thorin got the distinct feeling they would still be caught snooping around the gate.

“And you two will be meeting with Balin tomorrow,” Thorin said, already forming plans to keep his nephews busy for the next few days. “He’ll go over etiquette with you.” Balin was not going to be happy with him. He already had enough to teach Fili and Kili, giving them one more lesson would probably give Balin a migraine.

Kili let his head fall back as he groaned. “Not another lesson,” he said. “We already have to go over ruins tomorrow.” Even though he didn’t say anything, the slump in Fili’s shoulders spoke loudly. He shared his brother’s opinion on more lessons.

“That’s enough,” Thorin said sharply. “You either take the lessons or you don’t meet the skin-changer.” Not that that would stop them. Fili and Kili would still find some way to meet the skin-changer and probably frighten it out of the mountain.

Kili scuffed a boot on the ground but said nothing, scrubbing the plates with jerky, circular motions. Fili wordlessly set down his last mirror and picked up an empty lamp to begin reassembling it.

Thorin picked up a few of the lamps he had finished, leaning down to pick up some of the incomplete lamps resting on the ground. He caught sight of a bow laying on the ground at Kili’s feet. Thorin raised an eyebrow but said nothing and headed to the front door with the lamps. It wasn’t much of a bow—the dwarves used it in practice—but it still left Thorin a little worried. Most dwarves didn’t consider it proper for a dwarf to focus more on the bow than an axe or sword. It was no wonder Kili didn’t want to talk to him about, he already knew Thorin’s answer—and Thorin’s word was law to his nephews. Thorin pressed the issue to the back of his mind and stepped over the threshold of the house, he had enough things to worry about as it was. The bow could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I discussed the dwarf aging system with Pollux for a bit and managed to puzzle it out. The dwarves are physically mature at 40, but still take a few more decades to mature up to dwarves’ social standards (Pollux’s words, it’s the best way I can describe it). So, at Fili and Kili’s respective ages of 65 and 55, they’re old enough to start working in the forges but still considered immature.
> 
> I haven't decided what term I would use for female dwarves yet. If I would go with the dwarf-woman from the books or if I would go with the more commonly used dwarrow/dwarf dame. I'd love to hear what you think!


	8. Bilbo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two of the three-chapter update. I posted this chapter in March, before I went to my grandmother's funeral. For those of you who have been keeping up with my irregular postings and might have skipped last chapter, please go back! The last chapter is brand new. This chapter is going to the edited version from March.
> 
> Happy reading,
> 
> Castor

Bilbo could feel his heartbeat in his leg, or at least it felt like it. The pain radiated from where his leg rested under the blanket Bofur had covered him with. Bilbo flattened his ears against his head. _Ridiculous,_ he snarled, and kicked his good leg. A fresh wave of pain jolted through his leg and he shot up, lunging for it, teeth bared. He stopped halfway when he noticed that Dwalin had turned around on the seat and was glaring at him.

Bilbo bared his teeth in return. _It’s not exactly easy having a broken leg,_ he said. Dwalin only blinked and turned back around. Next to him, Bofur slapped the reins against the ponies’ backs, urging them on, completely oblivious to the exchange going on between his traveling companions.

Bilbo turned his head and rested it on the sideboard, watching the rolling hills rise up and fall around him. He didn’t mean to lose his temper like that, but the pain had gone from unbearable to irritating. It only became worse whenever he moved, which had been quite a bit for the last few days. Traveling in a cart as a hobbit was one thing, but riding in one while you were a dog with a broken leg was an entirely different matter. Bilbo had almost no way to communicate how he felt to the dwarves, especially since Dwalin seemed intent on ignoring him for the whole trip. Bofur at least tried to understand Bilbo’s gestures and offered as much aid as he could.

A green hill rose alongside the cart, patches of white peeking out from under the grass. Bilbo lifted his head, his ears perked. _These are the White Downs._ He glanced at Dwalin when he heard the dwarf mutter, “Wondered what these were.” Bilbo snorted and turned back to watching the grassy chalk hills go by.

He’d never been to the White Downs himself, but whenever his Tookish relatives came to visit the Westfarthing, the tweens would disappear for a while. Their parents never worried and brushed off any comments the other hobbits had about their young ones’ disappearances. The tweens would ultimately return after a few days, the rewards from their travels filling their pockets and covering their hands with white dust.

One spring, Bilbo had been too ill to go outside when his cousins came to visit. Naturally, the tweens had vanished within their first few hours of being in Hobbiton. They returned a few days later, laden with chalk from the White Downs. Adalgrim had dumped his entire load in front of Bilbo where he sat before the looming fireplace in Bag End. Delighted, Bilbo spent many hours drawing on a stepping stone Belladonna brought in from the garden.

Bofur clicked his tongue. “Come on,” he called, guiding the ponies around the sudden drop of a hill. He drew the ponies to a halt and they snorted, shaking their heads and flicking their tails before lowering their heads to graze on the spring shoots rising out of the ground. Dwalin stood up and dropped down from the cart with a solid _thud_. The pony nearest him gave a sharp snort and lifted its head to watching the dwarf warily. Dwalin patted its neck and it dropped its head to graze once more.

“You take care of the ponies,” he told Bofur. “I’ll be back with firewood.”

“Aye.” Bofur watched him leave, the reins dangling loosely in his fingers. He turned around in the cart as soon as Dwalin had disappeared from view. “How are you feeling?” he asked Bilbo.

Bilbo looked away from examining the white face of the hill. _In pain,_ he said. When Bofur only continued to stare at him, increasing worry spreading over his face, Bilbo laid his ears against his head and rested his head between his paws. He sighed, looking up at Bofur from his position. _This is embarrassing,_ he told the dwarf. _I’ve never had to this before._

“You’ll be all right.” Bofur leaned over the back of the cart seat and ruffled the fur on Bilbo’s head. “Oin’ll fix you up, good as new.” He turned and scrambled down from the cart, then headed to the nearest pony and began unhitching it from the cart.

Bilbo shook head to try and straighten out his fur. He hated it whenever someone petted him, but he couldn’t bear to hurt Bofur’s feelings. The dwarf had been kind to him during the last few days of their travels.

Bilbo rested his head between his paws, listening to the snorts of the ponies and the jingle of tackle as Bofur worked on unharnessing the ponies. Bilbo’s eyes drifted shut as he relaxed. The thrum in his leg had quietened enough for him to finally rest. The day when his leg was finally healed couldn’t come sooner. If the dwarves could help him heal quicker, he’d be forever grateful.

Birds sang and the sound of snapping branches echoed off the surrounding hills. Bilbo sighed and shifted, settling his head deeper into the wool under it—another kind gesture from Bofur, giving Bilbo something to rest on during the ride. Bags of grains and oats rested against the sideboards on either side of Bilbo. A few bales of wool had been piled at the front of the cart, two empty bird cages resting on top of them. The back of the cart had been left empty, making room for the unexpected passenger.

Bilbo began to drift off, thoughts of the cheerful fire of Bag End filling his mind. Hopefully, someone would stay there to keep the Sackville-Baggins away. They would try to snatch it up as soon as they heard Bilbo had left the Shire, insisting he was never coming back.

A flutter of wings sounded from above Bilbo and something landed with a soft _thump_ in front of him. Bilbo’s eyes flew open and he jerked his head up to see a small hawk sitting before him. It turned its head to fix one harsh eye on him. Bilbo flattened his ears and gave a soft snarl. He didn’t know what this bird was thinking, landing in the cart like this. He’d had plenty of songbirds hang around him before, but never a bird like this.

_Bilbo._ His uncle’s deep voice resonated through Bilbo’s mind, like a thought that had pushed its way to the front.

_Uncle._ Bilbo glanced up quickly to see Bofur sorting through the tack. The dwarf seemed to be struggling with trying to keep the harnesses from tangling with each other. Bilbo turned his attention back to Hildifons. _What are you doing here?_ he asked.

_Hobson said you’d been taken by dwarves._ Hildifons leaned to the side, peering at the blanket covering Bilbo’s body. _What happened?_

_May fell in the Water,_ Bilbo explained. _I had to do something, she could have drowned, and the Water dragged me away before I could get out._

Hildifons shook his head and ruffled his feathers, puffing up slightly. _You know what your mother and I have said about changing._

Bilbo bared his teeth. _I know,_ he said, struggling to keep his tone even. Why couldn’t his uncle understand? A fauntling had been in danger. _But I couldn’t let May drown._

Hildifons sighed inside of Bilbo’s head, but he remained still, keeping his sharp gaze on his nephew. It was a bit of a strange experience for Bilbo, hearing his uncle sigh but seeing no actual sign of exasperation from Hildifons’s bird form.

_What happened next?_ Hildifons asked. _You’re with the dwarves for a reason._

The tack jingled as Bofur set one set aside and began working on the second set. The ponies continue grazing from they had been hobbled near the face of the small cliff.

_My leg got stuck in a branch,_ Bilbo said. _A wave hit me while I was trying to get free. Bofur and Dwalin found me and freed me._

Hildifons paused at the names of the dwarves. He hopped on the side of the cart and looked about. Catching sight of Bofur, he turned his head to peer over his shoulder at Bilbo. _Dwalin?_ he asked.

_Gathering wood, I think._ Bilbo peeked over the edge of the cart, but he didn’t see the bald dwarf nearby.

Hildifons hopped back down to the floor of the cart. _And your leg?_ he asked, returning to the matter at hand.

_Broken._ Bilbo kept his gaze on the wool under his paws. _Dwalin said they have a healer. Oin, I think Bofur said. They said he could help me heal._

Hildifons sighed at the news and hopped closer to stand between Bilbo’s paws. _You can’t go with them,_ he said.

Bilbo drew his head back and blinked. _Why not?_ he asked. _They said they could help me._ Here Bilbo had a chance to regain full use of his leg and Hildifons wanted to keep him from that? What had gotten into his uncle all of a sudden?

_Because you don’t understand dwarves,_ Hildifons said. _They’re secretive and greedy. Once they have you in the mountain, they will never let you leave._

_I’m a changeling,_ Bilbo pointed out. _I can change shape and fly away whenever I like._ Hildifons stared at him. _Uncle, I’ll be fine. I promise. When I’ve healed, I’ll return to the Shire._

_Mark my words, Bilbo,_ Hildifons’s voice became quiet. _Once you’ve healed, they will watch you like hawks._ Bilbo looked his uncle up and down and let his mouth fall open in a doggish grin. He got the feeling if Hildifons could have rolled his eyes, he would have. _You know what I mean._

_Uncle—_

A series of clip clops echoed through the hills. Bofur stood up from his task, the tack laying on the grass, a few pieces still tangled together. The ponies lifted their heads and nickered.

Hildifons turned around spread his wings, looking over his shoulder at Bilbo. _When you’ve healed,_ he said. _Send a bird. I will come to fetch you if they try to keep you._

_Uncle,_ Bilbo began, but his words echoed through his own head as Hildifons rose up with a flurry of feathers and soared into the sky, disappearing over the hill. Bilbo tore his gaze away when Hildifons had vanished from view and watched as a shaggy, dun pony trotted into the encampment, bearing a new dwarf with it.

Bilbo struggled to his feet, holding his bad leg up and balancing carefully. The blanket hung from his back like a cape, brushing against his injured limb. Bilbo flattened his ears against his head and rested his chin on the sideboard, watching the new dwarf.

The dwarf looked just as strange as Bofur and Dwalin. The front part of his wooly, gray hair had been pulled back and braided tightly, curving up at the end. The front part of his beard had been braided as well and curled like ram horns, resting against the wild mass of hair the dwarf had left undone.

Bofur strode over from where he worked on the tack. He clasped the dwarf’s arm in greeting and they spoke in low tones. Bilbo could just make out the muttering words of the strange language Bofur had used by the Water. As Bofur spoke, the gray-haired dwarf cupped a hand around his ear. Bofur raised his voice, but the dwarf only shook his head and pointed to his ears. Bilbo heard Bofur sigh and the dwarf pointed to the cart, making strange hand signs to the gray-haired dwarf.

_Oin?_ Bilbo tilted his head slightly, the sideboard digging into his cheek. The gray-haired dwarf turned away from Bofur, looking to Bilbo. Bilbo lifted his head and perked his ears. _You heard me?_

“Aye.” The gray-haired dwarf—Oin—unstrapped a pack from his pony’s saddle and heaved it onto his shoulder. He headed over to the cart, leaving a sputtering Bofur to care for the pony, who had drooped its head and appeared to be falling asleep. The dwarf stopped next to the cart and craned his head to look up at Bilbo. “And you are?”

_Bilbo Baggins._ Despite himself, Bilbo wagged his tail. Finally, someone who could hear him and was actually responding. _At your service,_ he added quickly, recalling his mother’s lectures on manners, and bowed his head. He twitched an ear as Dwalin came stomping back into camp, his arms laden with wood.

Oin chuckled and reached up, scratching the fur on Bilbo’s cheek. Bilbo ducked away from him as gently as he could. Dwarves, he was discovering, seemed keen on showing their affections to him whenever possible by petting him. As much as it irked him, Bilbo certainly didn’t want to offend this new dwarf when he finally had a friendly creature to speak with.

“Now, then.” Oin head around the cart and unlatched the tailgate, allowing it to drop with a heavy _thunk_. The cart shuttered as he hefted his bag onto it and clambered up himself. “Let’s see what you’ve gotten yourself into, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo turned around, hopping awkwardly on three legs. Oin drew the blanket away and let it fall to the cart bed, shoving it off to the side, against the sacks of grain. Reaching out, Oin placed a hand behind Bilbo’s shoulder and another at his hip. “And down you go.” Bilbo sank back, surprised when Oin held him up easily and lowered him carefully onto the wool beneath him.

Oin leaned forward, probing at Bilbo’s hip. “Feel anything there?” he asked.

_Nothing,_ Bilbo said. He watched Oin as the dwarf worked, feeling down Bilbo’s leg with gentle touches. The dwarf leaned close, his nose almost brushing Bilbo’s fur, muttering about muddy fur and unsanitary healing conditions. Bilbo remained silent for a few minutes, twitching his ears when his nerves twinged with the touches. _Do you need a lantern, Master Oin?_ he asked in a strained voice.

“Why would I need a that?” Oin moved his hands down and pain echoed up Bilbo’s leg. Despite the dwarf’s gentle touches, the closer he got to the break, the more pain radiated up Bilbo’s leg.

_Well, it is rather dark out,_ Bilbo explained. _I thought it might help to have a little more light._

Oin grunted. “I’ve got enough light to see well enough.” His thumb grazed Bilbo’s leg, pressing down ever so gently, and pain erupted through Bilbo’s leg.

Bilbo snarled and lunged for Oin’s hand, teeth bared. Bofur shouted, leaping away from where he’d been watching by the fire, and the ponies jerked their heads up. Bilbo made a strangled sound when Oin enclosed his muzzle in one strong hand.

“You’ll use your words, aye, Master Baggins?” Oin said. “I’ve muzzled plenty of youngsters before, and I won’t hold back on you.” He gave Bilbo a hard look.

_I’m not a youngster,_ Bilbo panted, but remained still, his ears flat against his head. He bared his teeth in a shy grin, and Oin released his muzzle with a grunt.

“Bear with me for a bit.” Oin probed along the injury, sending fresh waves of pain through Bilbo’s leg.

Bilbo buried his face in the wool with a whimper. _Have you always heard changelings?_ he asked. He kept one wary eye on Oin as the dwarf worked.

Oin paused in his actions, his brows knitting together, before he continued testing the injured area. “Ever since I was a lad,” Oin said. “About your age, in fact.”

Bilbo perked his ears. What did Oin mean by that? Bilbo was a full-grown hobbit. Did that mean dwarves were still considered young at Bilbo’s age?

Oin leaned back from his work. “Dwalin wasn’t wrong,” he said. “The leg’s good and broken.”

Bilbo stared him. Was that what all his pain was for? So that Oin could decide whether or not his leg was actually broken? Maybe his good opinion of Oin was a bit hasty.

“But.” Oin turned to his pack and began digging around in it. “It feels like a clean break. We shouldn’t have much trouble getting it to heal.”

_I won’t have to lose it?_ Bilbo perked his ears and his tail thumped against the cart once.

“Lose it?” Oin snorted. “You’ll be running on it again in a month or two, I expect.” He pulled out a roll of gauze and two small planks. Oin deftly maneuvered one plank under Bilbo’s leg and the other on top and—holding them in one hand—began wrapping the cloth bandage around the splint. When he had finished, he began packing his things back into his pack.

_Thank you, Master Oin._ Bilbo watched Oin work. _For coming all this way to help me._

Oin pulled out a small bag. “It’s my job,” he said. “And I haven’t had the chance to work with your kind in a long time.” He loosened the drawstring and pulled out a biscuit, holding it out for Bilbo. “This should help a bit.”

Bilbo took the biscuit and bit into it. A hint of lemon hit his tongue, overpowered by something sour. He wrinkled his nose, and Oin placed a single finger on Bilbo’s nose.

“All of it, Master Baggins. I won’t accept a fit from you.”

Obligingly, Bilbo ate the biscuit, crumbs falling onto the wool below. He shook his head and sneezed when he’ finished. Oin patted him on the head.

“You’re going to feel a bit strange, but that’ll help.” Oin drew the blanket back over Bilbo.

Bilbo watched Oin pick up his pack and leap down from the cart. The dwarf headed over to join Bofur and Dwalin at the campfire. Bilbo listened to their conversation as they, thankfully, spoke in common. Bofur recounted the events with May and the Water as Dwalin continued to stare into the fire, rubbing his knuckles.

A few minutes later, Bilbo realized his head had dropped onto the wool of its own accord. He struggled to lift it, but it was like trying to slog through a swamp. He blinked at Oin, his vision blurring. The pain had faded from his leg and remained a quiet thrum that Bilbo could barely feel. Oin lifted a finger to his lips then pointed at the cart. Bilbo blinked once more before letting his head fall back onto the wool. His eyes drifted closed as memories of the warm hearth in Bag End invaded his mind and he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an American writer, but I prefer some British words over American words. If I happen to be using a word wrong, feel free to let me know!


	9. Bilbo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the third chapter of the three-chapter update. I need to stop writing things down on random scraps of paper. I'm starting a very strange collection that I always manage to misplace. Oh, well. At least I've finally got some notebooks I've started writing in. Now I just need to not lose those.
> 
> Happy reading,
> 
> Castor

Bilbo woke up to a bird singing in his ear. He remained snuggled in his wool nest, staring at the sideboard of the cart. He felt like a dense fog had settled over him, blocking any clear memories he tried to find. How long had they been traveling, and where were they? His gaze drew up to the small, sky blue bird with a white chest. It flitted about on the sideboard, singing cheerfully in the morning air. And what kind of a bird was that?

He sat up and the bird shot into the air with a final note. It disappeared under the roof of a low, open building. Three ponies stood in the building, tethered to a post that stood in the center, their heads lowered as they continued to sleep.

_Bofur?_ Bilbo looked around, but he couldn’t see any sign of the dwarf anywhere. _Oin?_ The surrounding low, long houses stood silent around him. One of the ponies snorted and stomped a hoof. _Bofur!_ Bilbo struggled to stand in the cart. He jumped when a hand landed on his back. Whipping his head around, he bared his teeth and let out a soft growl.

“Hush.” Dwalin glared at him and pulled his hand away. “They’re in the house.” He turned and sat back in the cart’s seat, his arms folded over his chest. His axes sat on the ground next to his feet. Their handles stuck up like strongly carved and gilded trees.

Bilbo settled back on his haunches. _Where are we?_ he asked, looking around. The cart had been parked in the center of a small group of windowless log houses. Between the houses, Bilbo could just barely make out the towering form of a row of mountains. His mouth fell open and he stared at it. This couldn’t be the dwarves’ home in the Blue Mountains, could it? The houses didn’t seem to be built very well. Their logs had begun peeling and a few shingles lay scattered at the feet of the houses.

“Trader Valley,” Dwalin said with a grunt. He sat up and picked up one of the axes, sliding it into its scabbard.

Bilbo looked over his shoulder at the dwarf. _Are we on speaking terms?_ he said dryly.

Dwalin paused to stare at him, then picked up his other ax and jumped down from the cart. He landed with a solid _thump_ and headed to one of the houses. He pounded on the door with a fist. “Come on! Get up!” Dwalin stepped back and planted the ax’s head into the ground, resting his arm on its handle.

A grumbling came from the house and the door opened. Bofur stood in the doorway, one hand covering his yawn. He’d left his hat behind and his hair had come loose from its braids. It stuck up in all directions. He blinked blearily at Dwalin. “Was that really necessary?” he grumbled.

Dwalin shoved Bofur’s shoulder. “Just get ready,” he growled. Bofur disappeared back into the house, and Bilbo heard him calling to Oin to get up. Dwalin sheathed his ax and headed to the ponies to begin readying them for the day’s journey.

Bilbo watched him go, then turned back to the mountain. So, these were the Blue Mountains? As a fauntling, Bilbo had often imagined mountains as standing alone, separated from each other for miles. But, as he stared at them, Bilbo realized he was sorely mistaken. The mountains stood in small groupings around Trader Valley. They rose up as if to pierce the sky, then fell at steep angles to merge with another mountain, forming one continues, small mountain range. A mist hung over the peaks of the mountains, shrouding them from view.

Bofur stepped out of the house, his pack slung over his shoulder and a smaller pack in his hand. “Morning, Bilbo,” he said while attempting to stifle another yawn. His hat sat lopsided on his head, one of its flaps sticking up in the air like a furry bird wing.

_Good morning,_ Bilbo said. He knew Bofur couldn’t hear him, but it seemed impolite not to return Bofur’s greeting. He joined Bofur at the edge of the cart, watching as the dwarf dropped his pack on the ground.

Bofur grumbled as he sorted through his pack. “Coming and pounding on the door before the sun’s even up.” He straightened up, holding a slice of dried meat in one hand. “How did you sleep, Bilbo?” he asked around a bite.

_It’s impolite to talk with food in your mouth._ Bilbo flattened his ears against his head and leaned forward. He took the small pack from Bofur and lifted it into the cart. It didn’t way too much—and for that Bilbo was thankful. He didn’t want to drop the pack and break anything inside of it.

Bofur’s mouth fell open when Bilbo took the pack and set it in the cart, then he laughed. “Well,” he said. “It seems like you want to help us pack, don’t you?”

_I don’t really have anything else to do._ Bilbo ducked under Bofur’s hand as he ruffled Bilbo’s fur.

“We’ve got a bit more to bring out.” Bofur stuck the rest of the dried meat into his mouth. “Then we’ll be on our way.” He hefted his pack into the cart and headed back into the cart.

Bilbo watched him go, then picked up the small sack. He limped to the back of the cart and stopped. Dwalin had harnessed one of the ponies and backed it up to stand beside the cart’s pole. He stood, holding the pony’s bride and one hand on its flank, and stared at Bilbo. Bilbo stared back him and slowly lowered the sack on top of the grain sacks. Dwalin turned back to the pony, stroking its neck before hitching it up and heading back for the second pony.

Bofur must have told Oin about Bilbo and the sack for—when the dwarf came out of the house—he held up a few small packs for Bilbo to take. Bilbo took them and set them beside the first pack.

“You better not be using your leg,” the dwarf said. He paused to eye Bilbo suspiciously as he set another pack down.

_I’m not,_ Bilbo promised. Oin grunted and headed into the house, and Bilbo sat down. It was awkward to hop around on three legs, but at the same time it felt nice to be on his feet for a change. He was sick of laying in the cart all day, even if his leg did twinge when he moved.

The dwarves finished bringing the packs out. Bofur and Oin clambered up into the cart’s seat and Dwalin swung up into the third pony’s saddle. The dun pony flicked its ears and stomped a hoof.

“Easy,” Dwalin drew the reins back and patted the pony’s neck. “We’ll be going soon.”

Oin pulled out his small pack of biscuits and dug around in it.

Bilbo lowered his head and laid his ears back. _I’d rather not,_ he said.

Oin paused, glancing at him. “No?”

_It makes me feel off,_ Bilbo tried his best to explain. _I don’t remember things well with it._

Oin frowned but closed the bag. “You’ll be telling me when it’s too much, aye?” he said. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

_Of course, Master Oin_. Bilbo bowed his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dwalin frowning.

When he noticed Bilbo watching him, he kicked his heels against the pony’s sides. “Come on.” The other ponies started after him, eager to begin their journey.

The cart jerked, and Bilbo nearly fell over. He braced himself, and slowly laid down when Oin kept a close eye on him. Bilbo rested his head between his paws and wagged his tail a few times. It thumped against the floor of the cart. Oin only snorted at that and turned around in the seat to begin giving advice to Bofur on how to drive the ponies.

The wheels and boards creaked as the ponies drew the cart deeper into the mountains, leaving Trader Valley behind. Bilbo watched the houses until they disappeared around the bend, then turned his attention to their road. It wound like a snake around the base of the mountains, and they towered over him like giants. The morning mist had begun to dissipate in the warm, morning sun.

The small party passed by mountains with steep, gray faces and a few sparse, thin trees that stuck awkwardly out of their sides. Jagged rocks coated their feet and—for a brief moment—Bilbo had the fear more rocks would come tumbling down. He glanced up quickly at the mountain, but he didn’t see any loose rocks standing on the edges of the cliffs. Slowly, the rocks began to give way to thick, green pine trees. The mountains gave way to a smaller valley and stood as a tight, dark-coated ring around it. In the distance, Bilbo could see even taller mountains standing like giant blue shadows in the sky.

_Are those the Blue Mountains?_ he asked Oin.

Oin barked out a laugh. “These are all the Blue Mountains,” he said. “But we won’t reach those ones.”

_We won’t?_

“No.” Oin guided the ponies around a fallen tree. Bofur muttered quietly that the tree hadn’t been there when they left. “They’re too far away. But, keep going, and you’ll hit the Dragon Vale.”

_The Dragon Vale?_ Bilbo looked away from where he’d spotted a large red deer. It had paused in its grazing to watch the group pass by. _Oin?_ he asked when the dwarf didn’t respond. The dwarf jerked as though someone had shaken him awake. After he’d gathered himself, Oin voiced Bilbo’s question for Bofur.

“Oh, aye,” Bofur said. He flicked the ponies’ reins on their back when they slowed at a hill. “That’s where the first dragons fought.”

_What were they fighting about?_ Bilbo attempted to picture the size of a dragon, but—even when he looked up at the sheer size of the mountain before him—he could come up with nothing.

“Not sure,” Bofur said. Oin only shrugged and shook his head. “But they turned the rocks to glass.”

“It’s not glass,” Dwalin grunted from where he road ahead of the group. Bilbo stood up to see him better.

“Oh?” Bofur called to him. “Then what do you call it?” Dwalin glared at Bofur, then turned back around in his saddle.

“Some call it dragon glass,” Oin offered, and left it at that.

Dragons. Bilbo settled back down with that to fill his thoughts. He’d heard plenty of tales about dragons as a fauntlings, but had they really been this close to the Shire at some point? The very thought made him shudder. A beast of that size would be capable of wiping out of the hobbits.

The shadow giants disappeared behind another range. Bilbo rested his chin on the sideboard, watching the trees rise and fall around him. There seemed something wild about these mountains, as if there was a constant battle between the rocks and the trees to claim domain over the mountain sides. In some areas, the rocks had won and left the face of the mountains bare but for the rubble left behind, and in others the trees stood tall and proud, covering the road with their dense shade. Birds flitted in and out of the trees, and Bilbo spotted a fox vanishing into the brush.

The ponies hauled the cart around the curve of a mountain and Bilbo lifted his head. The road split into two paths before them. The seemingly endless pine trees continued down the left road, standing proudly as a beacon for travelers to follow its path. The other road drew Bilbo’s gaze away from the sea of pine trees. Bare trees jutted out of the ground like blackened grave markers and equally dark logs lay strewn around them. A few spires of pink flowers stood among the burnt trees. As they drew closer, Bilbo spotted small, green trees sticking out of the ground, defying the air of dread surrounding them.

_What is that?_ Bilbo asked softly. His gaze drifted up the mountains on either side of the path. The destruction that had claimed the trees along the road continued up the mountain. Amongst the desolation, the spires of pink flowers continued to poke between the dead logs.

“That?” Oin twisted in his seat to gaze at the destroyed trees. “That is Loni’s Pass—named for Master Loni’s grandfather.” Bilbo stared at him, and Oin quickly added, “Loni was the first one to settle the Blue Mountains.”

“Though, if you ask Master Loni, he’ll say it’s named after him,” Bofur said. “For giving up his lordship to let Thorin take over.”

_Thorin?_ He’d heard the dwarves mention the name a few times, but he hadn’t bothered to ask about it yet. The pass—and the destruction—drew closer. The birds Bilbo had seen flitting about had all but vanished. A few of them sat in the trees but remained silent.

Even though Bofur couldn’t hear Bilbo, he seemed content to continue his explanation. “Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror, King under the Mountain. They came from Erebor some decades ago.”

Bilbo rested his chin on the sideboard and let Bofur’s words wash over him. Normally, he would have been eager to hear about this Thorin son of Thrain and the prince’s history, but his inability to converse with Bofur directly kept his interest from peaking. It would be too much of a hassle to try and use Oin as a translator—Bilbo had noticed that the dwarf struggled to hear at times—and Dwalin certainly didn’t seem like he would want to help. Bilbo sighed and tilted his head, resting his cheek against the wood. He looked forward to being able to speak with Bofur face to face.

They drew up next to Loni’s Pass—“mostly called Burning Pass, now,” Bofur said cheerfully—and Bilbo watched the trees slide by. One of the ponies snorted and tossed its, and Bilbo looked to it before turning back to the pass. He froze. Deep in the pass, where a few pine trees had managed to grow, stood a gray wolf as tall as a pony. It watched them silently, its ears pricked and its gaze directly on Bilbo.

_Oin._ Bilbo lifted his head, keeping his eyes on the massive wolf. _Dwalin._ The ponies snorted and stopped. They tossed their heads and stamped their feet, nosing at the air. They must have caught sent of the wolf. Still watching Bilbo, the creature pulled its lip back to bare a single fang.

_Oin! Dwalin!_ Bilbo surged up and began barking wildly. The ponies balked and Dwalin whipped around in his saddle.

“Steady!” Oin snatched the reins from Bofur, and the latter dwarf practically threw himself out of the cart. He raced around it to grab the ponies’ bridles and drag them back down.

“Come on,” Bofur pleaded. “Take it easy. Bilbo!” He leaned around the ponies, ducking when Dwalin cantered by on his pony. “Would you stop that?”

_Oin! Dwalin! Bofur!_ Bilbo snarled through short breaks in his barking, heaving himself up onto the sideboard with his front paws. _Oin!_

“Words!” Oin shouted. “Words, Bilbo!” He pulled back on the reins to stop the ponies when they jerked forward.

Bilbo stared at the wolf, who had stepped back at his barking, its ears flattened against its head. _Oin! Dwa—_. He gave a yelp when the whole cart shook and Dwalin grabbed him unceremoniously from behind. The dwarf hauled him away from the sideboard.

“Would you knock that off?” Dwalin roared. He dropped Bilbo onto the floor of the cart, and Bilbo shrunk away, his ears flat on his head.

_There’s a wolf,_ Bilbo tried. He dared a glance over the sideboard and his heart fell. The wolf had vanished, and the dead trees stood like silent sentinels, holding their and Bilbo’s secret close to them.

Oin and Dwalin froze while Bofur continued to struggle to calm the pony’s down. Dwalin’s pony stood near the end of the cart, where Dwalin must have hauled himself over the buckboard. It nickered softly, ears pricked as it looked down the pass.

“Wolf?” Dwalin repeated.

“A wolf?” Bofur leaned around the ponies. “What wolf?”

“Stay here.” Dwalin heaved himself over the buckboard and settle back into the pony’s saddle. He tapped his heels on the pony’s sides, and it started off into the pass.

_Wait._ Bilbo watched helplessly as the pony picked its way down tree strewn road. _It might still be there._

“He knows what he’s doing, Master Baggins,” Oin said. The three of them stood watch as Dwalin disappeared around the bend with his pony. Bilbo kept his ears pricked, trying desperately to hear past the pounding of his heart. The birds remained silent around them, though they flitted over the cart, and one landed beside Bilbo before taking off once more.

“What’s taking so long?” Bofur muttered.

_What, indeed?_ Bilbo put one paw on the sideboard and whined. The howls of the great white wolves filled him. He remembered those creatures clearly, and that wolf had looked just like them. What if it had snuck into the trees around him and was waiting to ambush them. A twig snapped and Bilbo gave a startled bark.

Oin grabbed his muzzle in one hand. “None of that,” he said. “It’s Dwalin.”

Despite Oin’s hand around his muzzle, Bilbo perked up at the sight of Dwalin coming back around the bend.

“There’s nothing,” the dwarf said. He raised an eyebrow at Oin and Bilbo, and Oin released Bilbo’s muzzle.

Bilbo sat back, lowering his head under Dwalin’s gaze. If the dwarf would take the time to talk to him, Bilbo would swear on his mother’s grave that the wolf had been there. Unfortunately, the dwarf didn’t seem to be in the mood to discuss the wolf with Bilbo, he only eyed him warily, then nudged the pony forward.

“We move on.”

Bofur walked a short way alongside the cart, leading the ponies on and speaking softly to them. Dwalin rode behind the cart, his gaze fixed directly on Bilbo. The hobbit himself curled up into a ball in his wool nest. He would have loved to tuck his legs in and hide his nose under his tail, but the splint kept him from doing so. The most he could do was bury his face in the wool and wish that Dwalin would stop staring at him.

 

Dwalin rode behind the cart after the wolf incident and kept his eyes trained entirely on Bilbo. Bilbo did his best to ignore Dwalin—resolutely studying the sideboard’s grains and knots—but it was hard. The dwarf’s gaze seemed to pierce him, and Bilbo couldn’t help but shift every once in a while. He dared to peek over his shoulder at Dwalin and quickly turned back around when the dwarf’s jaw tightened.

Bilbo buried his nose in the coarse wool of his nest. He’d never seen someone glare at another being before. Then again, the hobbits of the Shire were wont to ignore each other after a spat until one of them apologized.

Bofur swiveled around in his seat. “You all right, Bilbo?” He’d clambered back into the cart after about an hour of leading the ponies. The ponies themselves now hauled the cart dutifully but warily, their ears twitching at every sound.

_I’d rather not talk about it._ Bilbo ignored Oin when he glanced over his shoulder at him.

Bofur reached over the back of the cart’s seat and ruffled Bilbo’s fur. Bilbo jerked his head out from under the dwarf’s hand. He rested his chin on his paw, and out of Bofur’s reach. The dwarf frowned but said nothing and turned back around.

Overhead, the trees gathered close to the edge of the road, shading it from the midday sun. Vibrant blue and yellow birds flitted from tree to tree, and thick, white clouds skirted across the sky. The mountains loomed over the party, their pale faces peeking out every once in a while from the forests that covered them.

Somewhere in the trees surrounding them, Bilbo swore he heard a twig snapped. He pricked his ears up but made no move or sound. In his peripheral, he spotted Dwalin still watching him. The dwarf had sat up straighter in his saddle, his reins in one hand and his other hand resting on his thig.

Dwalin slowed the pony to a halt. “Keep going,” he told Oin when the old dwarf drew the cart to stop. “I’ll catch up.” And—turning the pony—he nudged it into a trot, following back the way they’d come.

Bilbo lifted his head and watched him leave, swaying as the cart jerked forward. Where on earth was Dwalin going? He settled his head back down and remained at attention.

“He’ll be fine,” Bofur said. Bilbo couldn’t tell if he was trying to comfort Bilbo or himself. “Dwalin knows what he’s doing.” Despite his words, Bofur kept glancing over his shoulder. Oin remained oblivious to Bofur’s words and continued driving the cart, urging the ponies on whenever they slowed.

Dwalin returned a short while later, and shook his head at Bofur’s questioning look. “Nothing,” he said. “Roads clear.” His pony shook its head and flicked its tail when it had caught up with the cart.

Bofur turned around in his seat and his face split into a grin. “There you are, Bilbo!” He pointed ahead of them. “Tower Pass.”

Bilbo struggled to stand in the swaying cart. There seemed to be more and more rocks layering the road as they’d traveled deeper into the Blue Mountains. A low mountain, looking as if someone had sheared its tip off, loomed over the party. Its face was completely bare, and pale lines across its dark stone. A few trees stuck out the side of the mountain, their branches bare and their bark pale.

As the party drew nearer, Bilbo could make out a pass carved into the mountain. The pass wasn’t very wide, perhaps four men astride horses would be able to fit through it. The walls rose up around the party when they drew near, casting them into a cool, deep shade. The ponies, used to their road, trotted through the pass easily.

_Why ‘Tower Pass?’_ Bilbo asked Oin. He had to crane his head back uncomfortably to try and see the ridge of the pass, but he could see nothing.

“There’s towers at the end of it,” Oin said. “First thing Thorin built after he became Lord of the Blue Mountains.”

“Good thing, too.” Bofur planted his boot on the board that stood upright in front of him. “It’s hard to see the orcs from the gate when they’re coming through the pass.”

_Orcs?_ Bilbo flattened his ears against his head and glanced over his shoulder. He quickly turned back around when Dwalin raised an eyebrow at him.

“Don’t worry, Master Baggins,” Oin said. “It takes a while for any orc army to make it through this pass.”

Bofur chuckled. “Oh, aye,” he said. “They’re too big for it.” He cast a quick grin over his shoulder at Bilbo. “And there they are.” The dwarf pointed up when he looked forward again.

Tilting his head back, Bilbo could make out tall stone structured that stood on either side of the pass. Open windows had been set into all sides of the towers with thinner shafts varying in distance from each other. Flags stood at the top of the towers. Bilbo couldn’t quite see the shapes sewn into the flag, but he thought he spotted scarlet on a deep gray.

Faces passed over the windows, pausing when they noticed the small traveling party. One of them disappeared quickly, and smoke began to rise from beside one of the towers. Bofur and Oin didn’t seem to notice, but Dwalin frowned when he saw the smoke. He nudged the pony ahead of the cart when they came out of the pass.

_Dwalin?_ Bilbo tilted his head to the side and looked at Bofur. The dwarf merely shrugged and sat forward. Bilbo watched Dwalin as the party continued into the valley.

Surrounded by the mountains, there didn’t seem to be any other pass into the valley other than the road that led straight ahead, into the trees coating the mountain in a deep green. A few trees stood out like campfires amongst the pines, their orange and red leaves dancing in the wind. In the distance, a large grove of trees stood alone in the already tall, grass of the valley. Bilbo could see movement amongst the trees, and carts stood next to the grove, their ponies grazing on the spring grass.

The sound of thundering hooves reached Bilbo’s ears and he turned his attention away from the grove. A group of about three dwarves drew close to the cart. The traveling party’s ponies whinnied, and the approaching ponies echoed them. The cart sped up slightly and Bilbo sat down hard when he jerked to the side. He laid his ears back and growled slightly.

“You all right, Bilbo?” Oin spared a glance at Bilbo but kept most of his attention on the group of dwarves coming nearer to them. Bofur had sat up in his seat. Dwalin’s hand formed a fist on his thigh, and Bilbo heard him growl, “What do they think they’re doing?”

_I’m fine,_ Bilbo said. _It just surprised me._ He kept the small shudders of pain up his leg to himself. The dwarves seemed to have enough to worry about right now.

The dwarves met the party in the middle of the valley, and both groups stopped. The ponies tossed their heads and nickered to each other. The two parties regarded each other carefully before one of the dwarves urged his pony forward.

The dwarf wore leather armor that creaked when he moved, and a braided leather belt that held a sword at his waist. A small badge that bore the head of a red dragon wearing a crown had been sewn into his armor’s shoulder. The top layer of the dwarf’s dark hair was braided back and clasped tightly at the back of his head. His beard was kept short and split, clasped at either end, and he wore an intricate, bronze cuff on his left ear. The two dwarves behind him wore similar armor, but the dragons on their badges didn’t wear any sort of crown.

Dwalin nudged his pony forward. “Hakil,” he said in greeting. “What are you doing here?” Direct and to the point. Bilbo refrained from rolling his eyes. Dwalin didn’t even seem to get along with his own people.

“Lord Thorin’s direct orders, Dwalin,” the dwarf—Hakil said. He rode past Dwalin and drew to a stop next to the cart. He looked over Bilbo carefully, raising an eyebrow at the splint on Bilbo’s leg. “It’s an honor to meet you, Master skin-changer.” Hakil bowed his head.

_It’s a pleasure to meet you as well._ Bilbo returned the bow. When the dwarf showed no sign of hearing him, Bilbo looked to Oin. Bofur nudged the old dwarf with his elbow.

“Eh?” Oin looked over his shoulder at Bilbo. “Oh.” He turned to Hakil. “He says its nice to meet you, Hakil.”

A scowl flickered across Hakil’s face and then vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Let’s move along, aye?” he said. His two dwarves turned their ponies around, but the party didn’t move. Hakil’s dwarves looked uncertainly over their shoulders at him. Bilbo could see pink beginning to tinge the dwarf’s face.

“Move along.” Dwalin backed his pony up, and out of the way of the cart. Oin slapped the reins on the ponies back and they started forward, the wagon creaking and swaying.

Hakil followed alongside it, the flush fading from his face. His scowl returned when Dwalin maneuvered his pony between Hakil and the cart, but Hakil said nothing. Bilbo looked between the two dwarves. Was there something going on between them? Glancing over his shoulder, Bilbo realized both Oin and Bofur were ignoring the situation.

Dwarves were strange folk, Bilbo decided. He settled down in his wool nest, watching as the trees—and Ered Luin—drew closer. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to spend too long with them before he was healed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm excited because this is my longest chapter yet. My hope is to be able to better my writing and feel more comfortable writing longer chapters as I continue. We always wrote short stories for all of my writing classes, so I'm still not used to writing longer pieces like this.  
> You will probably notice I use both the Blue Mountains and Ered Luin. I'm using the Blue Mountains for the mountains themselves and Ered Luin for the dwarves' hall. Now I just need to go back over the chapters I wrote before deciding this.


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